Remember Me
by the ramblin rose
Summary: Caryl, AU. At Spring Valley, every one of Daryl's patients got the best care that he could offer them. He cared about all of them, whether or not he ever got to actually know them. Carol was just another patient, and perhaps another hopeless case, but he hoped for the best. It was part of his job, after all. It was just part of his job...
1. Chapter 1

**AN: I'm not certain exactly how many chapters this one will be. I'm still working that out. It's inspired from a Tumblr prompt that was sent anonymously some time ago.**

 **I own nothing from the Walking Dead.**

 **I hope that you enjoy. Let me know what you think!**

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Spring Valley Medical Rehabilitation Center had been Daryl's place of employment for just over ten years. Finally tired of kicking around at what he considered dead end jobs, he'd gone to school for his degree and he'd gotten a job at Spring Valley almost immediately. He'd changed positions a few times within the center, none of them glamourous, and he'd finally landed on the one that he'd held for the past five years. Maybe it was just a dead end job, too, but at least it paid well and he didn't go to work every day wondering if he'd break his neck or lose an appendage.

Around Spring Valley, and behind closed doors, people joked that Daryl's job was "tending the vegetable garden" because most of his patients never woke up. And the few who did seldom recovered anything of their true selves. They were alive, but that was using the word in the loosest sense of its definition.

Whether it was traumatic brain injury, worsening pre-existing conditions, or anything in between, all of Daryl's patients were _incapacitated_. He had no more than ten of them at the time and, usually, he had only about five. But they required his full and constant attention, at least until their night nurse took over to handle the most basic needs while Daryl slept, because they couldn't do things for themselves. Most of them could do _absolutely nothing_ for themselves. So that meant Daryl was in charge of their every need.

Spring Valley was a private center. The families of Daryl's patients paid good money to know that their relatives were well taken care of and they didn't have to worry about them—usually in any sense of the word. Whether or not Daryl's job was glamorous, he took pride in his work, so he made sure that he lived up to the families' expectations.

He made the rounds, throughout the day, and took care of the necessities. On his watch, everyone got their meals and medications. Everyone got a bath every day and he washed their hair at least once a week. Teeth got brushed, nails got filed, and skin got moisturized. Beyond the bare necessities of his job, Daryl also spent time with each of his patients. He took what little information he knew about them—provided by their family members and by the center—and he used to that to talk to them. He kept them up to date on current events. He reminded them of things they liked and people who cared about them. He read them their favorite kinds of books—or his favorites if they weren't partial to anything—and he interacted with them as though they interacted with him.

Unfortunately, many of his patients passed away without Daryl even having the chance to know if they were aware of his presence or if he'd done them any good. That was one of the downfalls of working with the people that were his responsibility.

But he didn't stop what he did because he loved his job. And he liked to believe, whether or not it was true, that at least his interactions with patients had brought them some kind of minor happiness before they slipped away entirely.

Their families, too, must have thought that it did. Daryl had a whole wall of cards in his apartment, all tacked up by their corners, from family members that had taken the time to thank him for the kindness he'd show to their father, mother, sister, grandmother, uncle, son—to their _loved one_. He kept every one of the cards he was written—long or short—and they reminded him, daily, that what he did was _appreciated_ , even if his patients could never thank him for an extra bath, some lip balm, or "one more time" of reading their favorite book.

His bosses, too, seemed to recognize his hard work. In a place where people practically played a never-ending game of musical positions, Daryl had been allowed to keep his job and he was fairly confident that he would remain in his ward—they weren't talking to him about moving at all. That was the way he liked it, too. He preferred the security of his predictable routine, boring as it may be to others.

For the moment, Daryl had six patients. Three of them were long-term patients that he'd had the whole time he'd been there. Two he'd had for at least four months. The third was his newest patient and she'd only been with him for about two weeks.

Carol McAlister was her name. She was fifty one years old. She'd lived in Georgia her whole life, according to her daughter, and she'd had the accident in Georgia. Her daughter lived up north somewhere and travelled a great deal for business. She'd chosen Spring Valley because it was close to her mother's home—a home she might never return to—and because she'd heard about the center's reputation for excellent patient care.

Carol McAlister had suffered traumatic injury in a car accident six months before. Her doctors had expected full recovery, and physically she was doing well, but things hadn't quite gone the way that they'd expected. Daryl didn't know all the details, but the woman had never regained consciousness. Her brain was active, which at least gave them hope, but she'd seemed to stall in her recovery enough to keep her from coming out of the coma that she was trapped in.

Her daughter was busy and she had a life of her own. She couldn't dedicate herself to twenty-four hour care of her mother in the hope that she would recover. For that, she paid Daryl through Spring Valley.

She was paying top dollar for the best care possible—and that's what she was getting.

Daryl was still getting to know Carol.

Right now, what he knew about her came mostly from her daughter. The girl—woman really—had spoken to him over the phone and she'd agreed to answer a few questions for him so that he could personalize Carol's care. He'd used her answers to fill out the chart that he created himself for all of his patients.

She liked to be called Carol. She never wore her fingernails long because she hated the disappointment of having one break and being forced to cut the rest. She loved music from the seventies and she indulged in cheesy romance novels of the dollar store variety while she pretended to read books labelled as _classics_ that she never read past the first or second chapter. She didn't care for television and she hated watching the news in the morning because it made her sad before her coffee was even finished. Her favorite movies were the tear-jerker Hallmark movies that broke hearts halfway through only to end happily. She liked gardening, but wildflowers were her favorites.

 _She hadn't always had a happy life, but she was a wonderfully happy woman._

The last part Daryl had made up for himself from what he'd heard from her daughter and what he could simply tell about the woman. Daryl could tell old scars from new and he couldn't help but notice that there were, on the woman's body, enough old scars that he couldn't chalk them up to accidents—no one was that accident prone and still managed to stay alive for fifty one years. Something had happened in her life, something that her daughter wasn't talking about, but it didn't sound like it had stopped her from enjoying the rest of her life to the fullest.

At least there was that.

Some of Daryl's patients came to him having never really known much of a life to begin with. It was always more tragic, for him, to see them come to the ends of their lives when he knew that they'd never really had the chance to experience much. He always wondered if they were aware of their condition and if they lamented things that they hadn't done. It wasn't ever easy to lose a patient, but he found it was a little better if he could at least believe that they'd had a good life.

Those were his worse cases, though. He'd had, since he'd taken this job, about a dozen patients who'd recovered. Maybe they'd never been restored to exactly what they were before their accidents—he hadn't known them before to judge—but they'd gotten something of a life returned to them. He'd actually been able to see them go—waved goodbye to all of them from the curb—when their time with him was done and they were well enough to be returned to their families. He had pictures, on his wall, of each of them and, sometimes, he still heard from their families with a quick note or snapshot that told him that things were going well.

That was the hope that he had for Carol McAlister—that he'd wave goodbye to her, one day, from the curb when her daughter took her home for the rest of her recovery.

Daryl couldn't look at the woman and imagine that she might just linger there—in some limbo land between life and death—until she simply slipped away. She _looked_ full of life and her doctors said that they had hope that she would wake up and reach a full recovery, even if that hope was dwindling. Daryl figured, then, that it was his job to keep that hope alive.

Carol was his last patient of the morning rounds. He cleaned her up, changed her clothes, and took care of her medications. While he worked, he hummed "Hotel California" because the song had been stuck in his head since he'd gotten to work. She would appreciate his taste in music, though, from what he'd heard, so he didn't apologize for the repetition of the tune and the occasional lyrics that slipped out of his mouth while he worked.

When she was clean and comfortable, Daryl opened the curtains to her room and let in the light. The views on his end of the building weren't that great—since nobody seemed to think his patients would care anyway—but the sun could still filter into the rooms.

"Pretty day outside," Daryl said. "Good weather. Not too hot. Muggy, but the mosquitos aren't too bad. If you were to wake up? We could take a trip out there. We could—have lunch outside probably. The food really ain't that bad here. I've been eating it for years. Beats just having a sandwich. Sure beats what they're giving you for lunch right now."

Carol, of course, didn't respond to him—and she didn't get up for his offer to go outside—but Daryl was used to that. It was part of his job to be used to that. And, though he'd never felt super comfortable when he was engaged in conversations with others, he found it was _easy_ to talk to his patients. He never felt like they were judging his chosen topics. He never felt like they were tired of hearing him. They didn't respond, and that meant he didn't have to overthink their responses or his own words to follow.

He was comfortable with the monologues.

He pulled his chair around and set his watch. He'd spend a half an hour with her before it was time to start rounds again, dividing the rest of his day up with tasks he needed to complete and shorts spurts of time spent with his patients. He picked up one of the ten or so dime-store romance novels that he'd grabbed to read to her and he settled down in the chair. He looked at the back of the book.

"I had a patient once—Margie Weber—that loved these kinds of books," Daryl commented to the woman that may or may not be able to hear him. "Her granddaughter said she liked the kind, though, that had the supernatural whatevers in them. You know? Like vampires and ghosts and time-travel. This one's new. It doesn't look like there's any time travel, but—Sophia didn't say that you wanted that. Just that you liked the romantic parts. Judging by the cover—there's got to be something like that in here."

He laughed to himself and settled back in the chair. He cracked open the cover of the paperback, found the first page that had anything that pertained to the story printed on it, and he started to read aloud to the woman—hoping she might appreciate his selection of fine drugstore dollar-novels.

Over the years, he'd read everything from Shakespeare to veritable porn out loud—whatever his patients wanted. Whatever they'd liked in their lives—past lives almost. He'd listened to music that was bad enough it had given him a headache, and he'd learned about music that he never would've known he liked. He remembered every patient that had ever, inadvertently, introduced him to something new—something he never would have experienced without crossing paths with them. Whether or not everyone else called his ward the "vegetable garden," Daryl learned a lot from his patients.

And he cared about every one of them, no matter if they were just passing through or if they ended up staying for a while.

Every single one of them got individualized care and exactly what they needed. They got the best that Daryl had to offer them.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Here we go, another chapter.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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Daryl complete his last round of "aerobics" with Carol just before it was time for his lunch break. The exercises kept muscles from atrophying the way that they might if he didn't spend the extra time with his patients. They lowered the risks of blood clots and other complications as well. He'd read a few books on things he could do with his patients and he was always looking for more suggestions. He picked up reading material, now and again, that he thought might be useful and he worked it into his book rotations for the patients who didn't really have preferences for their entertainment.

"Take a breather," he teased when he was done. "Done good. Tomorrow we add two more reps of everything. Work you in slowly since I know they didn't do much with you at County."

Daryl got Carol "settled" again, at least ensuring that she was as comfortable as he could make her, and he slipped into the bathroom of her room to wash his hands. Then he returned, pulled the chair near the side of her bed, and got his lunch off the windowsill in the little Styrofoam box that the ladies in the lunch room packed for him. Every day he ate lunch with one of his patients, alternating out which one he kept the company of, and today was Carol's day. Once he was satisfied that his food was prepared to his liking, and he'd commented on the cafeteria selection in case Carol might want to wake up just in time to grab some of the stewed beef—which was actually one of his favorite dishes served there—he picked up the book that he'd been reading out loud to her.

He'd probably been reading it about a week and a half now. It wasn't difficult to read and they were making good time. They were more than halfway through it, even if just by a few pages.

"We keep reading?" Daryl asked around a bite of his food, once he'd accepted that Carol couldn't be swayed to come back for the food. "I don't know how into this one you are, but it really ain't that bad." Daryl laughed at himself for the admission that he wasn't entirely hating the romance novel. He'd certainly read worse books that were supposed to be considered far superior to this one. "But—I gotta call bull on a couple of things," Daryl continued, speaking around his consumption of his midday meal. "This Francisco guy? He's got millions of dollars. He's gotta have at least that much. But he doesn't work. Like never. You noticed that? He doesn't do anything but spend his time on the beach waiting for Ivy to show up and—I guess—looking for women before she got there. I mean he's got two or three cars, a huge house—but apparently everything is supersized in Francisco's world. His biceps. His..." Daryl cleared his throat and glanced through a few of the pages. "His _throbbing manhood_ like it says," Daryl said. He felt his cheeks burn hot like they did every time that he got to one of those parts. His instinct was to skip them, but he remembered that he'd had a patient before whose sister had told him that, well, those were her favorite parts. He couldn't very well read her a book and skip her favorite parts.

He wondered, though he wouldn't have asked Sophia, if those were Carol's favorite parts. It was hard to tell that kind of thing. Since he didn't know her exact preferences, he read them anyway. He assumed they were allowed to be pointed out, as far as literary discussion went, because even if they weren't her favorite parts, she'd certainly stumbled across them before she got to Spring Valley.

Daryl laughed to himself.

"Tell me that you don't really buy into this and it's just for the story. Because these books? It's pretty easy to see why women get pretty easily disappointed in life if they're taking this kind of thing as some gospel. And Ivy? She really ain't no better. Rich and successful. Says that, right out, in the first chapter. Cleans out her savings and quits work for this exotic trip and she's got no money worries? Got enough money for anything she wants so that means she's gotta be like seventy and been putting back her whole life. But the picture on the cover makes her look sixteen and her description don't make her seem no older. So innocent, too. But we'll say she's what? Twenty? Twenty five tops? I mean—there's a lot here that just doesn't add up. Still, I'm no critic, but I'd give it a good three out of five. Take out the ridiculous and it's a pretty good story, but then it's pretty short too."

Daryl looked at Carol. He gave her a moment of silence in his monologue. He gave her the opportunity to wake up and argue with him. That's what he really wanted. He wanted her to wake up and argue with him. He wanted her to disagree with him—or agree with him—and demand that they discuss it.

"You can tell me I'm wrong, if I'm wrong," Daryl said. He knew she wasn't going to do that, though. She was going to stay just as she was. Daryl swallowed and nodded to himself. "Stew beef was good today," he said. "You missed out. Almost always is good. It'll come back around again, though, if you're up to it. You—ever been to an island? I mean...you probably didn't go on some kinda trip like Ivy. Didn't just up and take everything you had and drop your whole life. You had a kid—and you must've done a pretty good job raising her because she seems to be doing OK. Rich and successful, right? So you didn't drop everything. But did you ever go on like a cruise?" Of course, he got no more answer than he'd gotten for any other question he'd raised and he didn't expect one at all. He hoped for one, but he didn't expect one. That was pretty much what most of his interactions with patients came down to.

But every now and again, one surprised him and that was good enough for him to keep hoping that more would.

"If you haven't been to an island, bet you could go to one. Your daughter travels a lot. She'd probably like to go with you. Could be a nice vacation. Better than the one you're on right now, right? Read a chapter? Before I gotta move on?" Carol neither accepted nor rejected his suggestion that they continue the story. He took it as her silent approval and moved his box out of the way before he settled in to cover more of the adventures of Francisco and Ivy.

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By the time Daryl could leave, he was dragging. He always was when the end of his day came. He worked from the morning, when the night nurse left, until the night when the night nurse took over for him. There were three to four different nurses that replaced him—always on a rotation—but he never got to know them well. The night positions seemed to be some of the most popular ones that changed out in the game of musical jobs that took place at Spring Valley. It wasn't the kind of job, Daryl supposed, that anyone wanted to commit to as a permanent role.

Daryl changed in the locker room near his ward and gathered all the dirty clothes together that he'd crammed into his locker for the past few days. He stuffed them into the mesh bag that he'd use to carry them home and then he filled his pockets with all the items he'd left in his locker and emptied out of his work pockets—his car keys, the pocket knife they let him have because he was often opening boxes and hated having to run about looking for a box cutter, his wallet and the loose change he carried for the snack machines. Then he gathered up his mesh bag, closed his locker, and left the locker room.

It took him about fifteen minutes to do his final "check" on his patients. It was more of a compulsive habit at this point than anything else. He never felt right walking out the door of the center if he didn't stop back in, one last time, and assure himself that everyone was fine enough to get them through the fifteen or so minutes that it would take for the night nurse to clock in, change, and get out to do his or her first checks—Daryl wasn't even sure, most of the time, who was taking over for him.

Carol was his last check of the night. He slipped in her room, the same as he'd done for all the others, and glanced over everything to make sure that everything was in its place. Nothing was awry, not that it ever really was, and Carol was just the same as she'd been when he'd left her last.

"About twenty minutes and the night nurse will be here," Daryl said. "Take care of whatever you need and I'll be back in the morning. I'ma give you another couple of weeks or whatever—if you need it—but you oughta start thinking about waking up soon. Like having you around, but I don't really want you here forever. You know what I mean? Some of the people here? This is it. Spring Valley's the end of the line. But—you just can't do that, so just start thinking about it if you don't have nothing else on your mind tonight."

Once he left Carol, Daryl had nothing left to do. He'd taken care of his paperwork earlier and he was free to go. He strolled out of the center and tossed a hand up at anyone that he saw and recognized, but he made no move to stop to talk to anyone. By the time his shift was over and he was headed home, he was talked out. Besides that, he didn't really care too much for conversation around the clinic that was two-sided unless he was having it with a patient that was making some strides toward recovery. He'd entertain them because he was usually as excited with their progress as their families were.

His coworkers just didn't excite him that much.

In the parking lot, Daryl unlocked his truck and threw his bag inside. Then he leaned against the outside of the truck and lit the first cigarette that he'd had in hours. Immediately the nicotine went to his head and gave him the pleasant dizzying feel of the first hit after a long dry spell.

He was tired, but he wasn't falling-asleep-tired. He'd go home, shower, and then he'd probably have a beer while he picked something out to watch on television. Most of what he watched on television, he never really paid much attention to. He preferred reruns, if he was going to watch anything, because he liked sitcoms more than he cared for any of the reality garbage, but he didn't even pay close attention to the reruns. Mostly he just sort of stared at the television and let the sound entertain him until he was ready to fall asleep.

There wasn't much to do at home.

These days he blamed his solitary lifestyle on his job. He worked long hours and he was tired when he got home. He didn't care for going out and, in this town, there really weren't too many ways to meet people if you weren't going out to a bar. You could go out to dinner, or out to coffee, but the catch was that you had to meet someone first for that to be an option.

And the truth was that, before, he'd blamed it on his job as well. It didn't matter the job he worked—and he'd worked quite a few before he'd gone to school for his degree and got his job at Spring Valley—he blamed his solitary lifestyle on the job.

Really it boiled down to personality and to surroundings.

His brother was the closest person to him that even existed in the world. And his brother, though he was alright as far as brothers went, wasn't always the most pleasant company. The people that he hung around with were great if you wanted to party, but most of them didn't have much in the way of personality if you weren't interested in talking about women, cars, or sports. Though Daryl didn't mind those topics, every now and again, he often felt like he was getting too old to spend his time with fifty and sixty year old men that spent more of their time verbally reliving their "glory days" than they spent worrying about the "golden years" that they were actually living.

With those people as his most readily available companions outside of work, and no chance of meeting new people unless he wanted to take his chances digging through losers at the bar in search of some kind of diamond in the rough, Daryl just didn't find that he had a lot of desire to spend time around people. He did fine on his own and any amount of socializing that he wanted to get out of his system—and even more talking than he ever really _wanted_ to do—got taken care of when he was with his patients.

Home was just the quiet place that he went, when work was over, to sleep until it was time to get back to where he'd really rather be. It didn't matter, much at all, how he chose to spend his time there.

When his cigarette was finished, Daryl crushed it out on the asphalt and dropped the butt into the back of the truck so that he could throw it away later when he cleaned the bed out. He threw a hand up in the direction of a nurse that he recognized who was walking through the parking lot toward the building, and then he got in the truck. He cranked it up and pulled out of his parking spot. The very one that he'd pull right back into in twelve or so hours.


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I have to say that there's going to be some things that happen in the story that are not going to be one hundred percent medically or legally factual. I know that may bother some people, but I only have google to go on and I'm more than willing to stretch the truth for the sake of entertainment. That's all this is. It's entertainment. Therefore, I ask for suspension of disbelief. If the stretching of the truth is something that bothers you to the point that you can't enjoy a story, then I invite you to stop reading soon. This is your disclaimer for all things inaccurate.**

 **I hope that you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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Usually Carol was the last patient that Daryl took care of during his first morning round. After he'd changed clothes, he'd work his way around to her by starting with the person closest to the locker room. Mr. Townsend's room was closest to the lockers and he was who Daryl typically started his morning with. Carol's room, though not far away, was the farthest room on that "circuit." This morning, though, he broke his routine. When he entered her room, he did a quick check of everything to make sure that all was well. Carol was sleeping as peacefully as she ever was. He went to the windowsill and looked over a few of the vases with flowers in them. Some patients got more flowers than their rooms could hold. Others, like Carol, really never received any. Despite the fact that Sophia knew that her mother liked flowers, she was a practical woman and didn't see the need to send her any because she wasn't likely to see them before they died and Daryl just tossed them out. Those patients that got more flowers than their rooms could stand, though, didn't mind sharing. Daryl knew because he'd asked them before he'd borrowed some of their gifts and they'd offered him no resistance.

Daryl threw away the flowers that were closest to being dead out of Carol's selection and he rinsed the vase that they'd come in before he refilled it with water. Then he took the time to arrange the jasmine flowers, ones he'd cut from the side of the road near his home, so that they looked at least somewhat presentable in the small glass vase.

"Morning," Daryl said to Carol, bringing the vase over to her when he was satisfied. Jasmine wasn't the easiest thing to arrange in a vase, but he thought he'd done pretty well. "You're first today—but that means I won't be back around until later. I'm going to get you everything, but I brought you these. Jasmine."

He tipped the vase enough to offer her the fragrance of the small yellow flowers. The scent of them already filled the room somewhat and he kept inhaling it deeply because it was one of his favorite scents as well.

"Can you smell it?" He asked her. "You like wildflowers but—some of them don't smell really good and some of them you can't smell at all. But these? Anybody could smell these. I cut these from right near where I live. Not a lot of traffic on the road and I was able to pull over and take my time. I picked all the bugs off that I could find, so they're pretty well as clean as any flower. You like jasmine?"

He got no response, but he put the flowers on the little table nearest her bed so that she could enjoy the fragrance of them throughout the day. Then he went about preparing and administering her medication that he'd gotten from the pharmacy area on his way to her room. Her meal would come later when it came for all his patients. That was usually his second "round" around the ward.

He went for the soapy water that he'd use to clean her up and he gathered her clothes. Then he started the slow process of stripping her down, washing her up, and getting her into something fresh. There were people in his profession that were faster with everything they did. There were people who could strip a bed, strip their patient, wash them, and have them dressed and in a fully prepped bed again in a matter of minutes. He'd seen some of them do it and thought it was reminiscent of watching tires being changed on Nascar. Daryl wasn't known for his speed at all. What he was known for, and what the families of his patients seemed to notice—and possibly that was the only thing that kept him his job sometimes—was that he was thorough and he was gentle. Just because his patients couldn't complain, that didn't mean that he didn't think about how they might feel if they were aware, at all, of what was happening to them.

"Your hair's not bad," Daryl said. "We ain't gonna wash it today. Do that tomorrow. Maybe even the next day. Sophia called me last night. I asked her to if she was coming in so I could get you extra cleaned up. She said she's gonna try to make it to see you soon. Really busy and right now she's in Washington. That's the state, not the capital. But you might know that already. She might go there a lot with her job. Or, I don't know, maybe she knows somebody that lives out there. I also googled you last night. Did you ever google yourself? A fair amount comes up. More than with some people."

Daryl's stomach twisted a little. Maybe a little more than Carol would've wanted came up when he googled her.

More than a few images had come up for her. Some had been from a couple of news articles. Others had come from a social media account that she had. He'd gone there, to see more pictures, but most of it was private. She'd forgotten to hide a few, though.

He hadn't meant to snoop as much as he had, especially once he suspected she was a woman who liked her privacy. He hadn't meant to look at everything so thoroughly or read all the articles that came up with her name. He couldn't help it, though. Once he'd seen the pictures of her—looking very much alive and very different than she looked at the moment—he hadn't been able to stop.

She was an attractive woman even now—and that was a hard stunt to pull off—but she was beautiful in the pictures. The articles took him back to things in her past that she might not have readily told him—things Sophia hadn't told him—and he wasn't going to mention those things to her. He wasn't going to dredge up any negative memories. If she heard him, and if she kept what he said with her, then he wasn't going to leave her spending her whole day reliving the fact that she'd been mentioned in a few articles regarding her ex-husband's arrest and incarceration.

He wasn't going to mention, either, the obituaries of her parents that he found. The evidence, in black and white, that she was an only child and that, now, she only seemed to have Sophia as far as immediate family went.

He wasn't even going to mention the accident that had received a fair amount of coverage. A drunk driver, killed on impact at the scene, had run a stop sign that would've likely only been a blur for his speed and hit her hard enough to roll her car several times. There were some pictures from the accident—most of which, but not all, were respectful to Carol's privacy—and Daryl couldn't imagine that she'd even lived through the accident with the relatively minor injuries that she'd suffered. They'd helicoptered her out of there, in critical condition, and taken her immediately to Atlanta. Even if google didn't tell him any of the details, Daryl knew that she'd been transferred twice since then. Once when she was stable, and then a second time when Sophia had her moved to Spring Valley for better long-term care.

Daryl wanted to remind her of her life—to remind her that she had something to come back to—but he didn't want to drown her in the negative moments that she'd lived through. Negativity, he knew, was no help to healing.

"You were a teacher," Daryl said. "Retired, I think? I saw that. Taught junior high? I think they called it middle school. English. Means you read all them books that Sophia said you never made it past the first or second chapter in, doesn't it? You just—didn't want to read them when you didn't have to? Read something else for fun. I get that, though. If you read it all day long. Or you've read something a hundred times? Not much different than picking up a magazine or something except them novels don't have pictures."

Daryl laughed to himself and thought about the book that he'd read her. It was a good thing that they didn't have pictures or you'd have to show identification just to buy them. They'd started on a new one now. The new one was a little different than the island adventures of Francisco and Ivy—who had married and lived happily ever after with the intense, passionate romance and adventures never dying down for them from what Daryl could tell. The new one was a little slower paced. It was a little bit of a sleepy romance. He liked it better, honestly, because it was something that he could relate to a little better than he could relate to jet-skis and yachts and sex on the beach.

Carol hadn't made any indication for her preferences, though, so he would just assume that she liked them both the same.

"Saw you took them on some trips," Daryl said. "The kids that you taught? You take a trip every year or just sometimes? I saw you went to Washington. The capital—not the state. But you could've gone to the state too, right? One day you'll have to tell me all the places you went. I haven't really ever left Georgia. I've thought about it a couple of times but it never really seemed like there was too much that I needed anywhere else. Take it back—went to South Carolina. Think we even went up into North Carolina. That was a hunting trip, though, and it was just one year. Some friend of Merle's—he's my brother—had some place up there and we went just to hunt."

Daryl thought back on the pictures that he'd seen. There had only been a handful of them that he'd studied to see what Carol looked like when she was animated and full of life. Her pictures had led him to some of Sophia's pictures. He'd seen the girl—woman—when she'd come to tour Spring Valley. He'd met her and he'd talked to her. He'd seen her again when Carol was moved. The pictures of her that he saw, though, were different. In the pictures he'd seen, she'd been with her mother—that's why they'd shown up—and she'd looked happier. She'd looked a little lighter.

He supposed that most children, regardless of their age, looked different with their parents. Especially if they really loved their parents.

"Saw Sophia, too," Daryl said. "There were some pictures with you. One where—she looked to be about four and you were playing with her in one of them plastic pools? Do you remember that? There was another, too, where you were at some kind of party. Maybe it was a birthday party. You had your face painted up with a butterfly on it and she had one too that was just the same as yours. She looks like you. There's a strong resemblance there. I didn't notice it when they first brought you here—but then I wasn't too used to what you look like. When she comes? I'm going to notice it then. If you're awake, when she comes? We could have some kind of little party here. Just something to celebrate if you'd like that. If you'd rather not, though, we don't have to. Just an idea that you can think about. Thank about what you might like."

As the final touch of his first round of everything, Daryl got the wide-tooth comb out of Carol's drawer and gently combed through her curls. Her hair had been very close to shaved when she got there—more than likely for the surgeries that had accompanied her accident—but it was growing in full and thick now. It didn't leave, even, any sign of the scars that he knew were hidden beneath the silver curls that were starting to form.

"I'm gonna go and get everybody else ready to start their day now. I'ma leave you that jasmine right here. Smells good and you can't smell it as good from the window. If you like it, I'll get you some fresh when that's gone. Just—uh—don't knock it over if you get to stirring around. It's right over here. To your right."

He could wish the one added task to his day would be cleaning up the shards of the glass vase from where she'd knocked it to the floor, but he doubted, sincerely, that would be the case.

"I'll be back," he told her again. "Just—get some rest in the meantime. Think about what you might want to do when Sophia's here."


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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There were more than a few times at his job that Daryl laughed at himself and felt like he was starting to lose his mind. Maybe he wasn't going certifiably insane, but he could see that spending his days with people who couldn't communicate with him in any way was starting to wear on him a little—it was just here or there. It was just around the edges.

Trying to get to know his patients like he did—learning as much as he could about them and trying to relate to them despite the fact that they couldn't speak to him and might not even hear him—required a good bit of imagination. He didn't know who they were or who they had been, so he was left with nothing more than his own imagination to get him through. As a result, his job was equal parts fantasy and reality.

And sometimes that led him to have a slightly overactive imagination.

Daryl usually blamed things on too little sleep or too much caffeine in the morning. Sometimes he blamed things on the fact that he'd watched a certain movie before falling asleep or he'd daydreamed a little too vividly while driving to work. Other times he blamed his overactive imagination on the memory of events that had happened with past patients who had, without much rhyme or reason, simply come back into the land of the living and left behind whatever dream world they'd been locked in for so long. He blamed things on the fact that he _wanted_ to see that sort of thing more often. He wanted to see it every day.

Whatever the reason, though, sometimes his imagination got away from him.

There were different things that would happen. He'd hear something—a tapping noise that he was sure was the movement of an IV bag or a crackling noise like the movement of bones that popped a joint—and he'd turn around to find that nothing was out of place. He'd check in with his patient. Talk to them. Watch them so closely that he could've seen even a flutter of an eyelid. But, far more often than not, he'd realize it was nothing more than a rattling in the air vent or someone outside making some noise in the hallway.

Those were times when Daryl had to excuse himself from his work. He had to take a break. He would let them know, just down the hall, that he was going out for air and he'd be back, and then he'd step out. Nobody minded—his patients weren't too demanding and everyone knew he'd catch back up with his work—and nobody asked any questions. People didn't want to work in his ward because they feared going mad with what they considered so _little_ to do. They didn't question that, every now and again, he might need to escape what they all dubbed "the vegetable garden" and get a stronger grasp on his senses.

It was close to time to leave, but he still needed a break. It had happened a few times today and it was getting to him. He was blaming it on lack of sleep—not that he'd really had a bad night's sleep—because he needed something to explain it with other than the good old fashioned failing of his mind.

First he'd heard a clicking noise—the air vent, no doubt, but he'd taken it for an IV bag moving—when he was straightening things up in Carol's room. The sound was a familiar one to him, so he'd been able to talk himself out of it quickly enough.

The second time it had happened, he'd come into her room with everything he needed to get her fed, and he'd been convinced that she was lying differently than he'd left her. Her hands were in a different position. He didn't remember having left her like that. He'd immediately thought that someone else might have done it—maybe one of the volunteers that came in sometimes and didn't really know the layout of the land that well—and he'd asked around at the stations to find out if anyone had been in Carol's room and if he might need to know about anything they'd done. He'd been told that, as far as anyone knew, he'd been the only one in there, and he'd finally dismissed the change of position as nothing more than the fact that he simply didn't remember how he'd left her.

He was confusing her with someone else.

The third time, though, and the time that had finally sent him to take a nice long break, was when he'd come in her room to check things over, record vitals, and obtain a blood sample for some basic tests that needed to be run. Everything had been as normal as they absolutely could be, but while he'd been straightening up, he'd thought he'd heard something.

If he was honest with himself, he'd thought he'd hear _her_. Whether what he heard was a word or a sound or something else, he'd thought that she'd been the one to make it.

He'd done the only rational thing that he could do. He'd rechecked the vitals that he'd just checked. He'd checked her eyes. He'd checked her airway to make sure that, somehow, she wasn't choking and producing the sound in response to the accident. He'd talked to her—begged her to make the sound again if she'd done it. He'd pinched the tender skin under her arm to try to elicit some sort of reaction to the pain stimuli in case the prick of the needle had been what earned him the initial noise. He'd tickled the bottoms of her feet to test for any reaction there.

And when he'd gotten nothing? He'd dropped off the blood sample and he'd told them he was going on a break. He didn't even bother to change or sign out. They'd find him if they wanted him.

Daryl sat on the tailgate of his truck and slowly smoked a cigarette. He paid attention to the act of smoking it. He watched the paper burn down. He made himself feel each of the sensations of inhaling and exhaling. He focused on what he heard around him in the parking lot.

He wasn't really crazy. It wasn't madness, and he wasn't the first to experience it. He'd read enough to know that it happened to doctors and nurses and caregivers of all ranks and qualifications. They spent enough time with a patient, focused on that patient's recovery, and soon they started to imagine things. It wasn't madness. It was the brain simply giving them what they _wanted_ , even if it wasn't real.

Carol had been at Spring Valley for almost three months now. Daryl had only taken six days off that he could recall, since she'd gotten there. He seldom took the "time" that he was owed because he preferred to work and he could argue that his hours were regular enough that he didn't require days off. He preferred to be at his job. And, whether or not he admitted it, he worried about his patients when he wasn't there. He worried that those filling in for him wouldn't do a good enough job caring for them. They'd take care of the necessities, of course, but they wouldn't _care for_ them the way that Daryl did. They might even be foolish enough to let some of them know that the rest of the place joked that they were nothing better than vegetables. Daryl preferred to work most every day—so he'd spent nearly three entire months caring for Carol.

He wanted her to wake more than he wanted any of his current patients to wake. It wasn't that she was more important, it was just that she was different. All of the others that were currently in his care were older patients. Many of them, if they were to slip off to wherever they were going when they died, would be considered an appropriate age for such a thing to happen. There wouldn't even be the question of "what had happened" to them because the answer was simply that life had happened to them or, in particular, that a full life had happened to them and they were simply done with it now. But Carol was too young for that. She hadn't had the full life that the others had lived. She'd been robbed of it by a drunk driver who hadn't had enough regard for his own life, or anyone else's, not to try to drive a car after he'd had far too much.

Daryl wanted Carol to wake because he believed she deserved the rest of her life—whatever it might hold—and he wanted her to have it.

And now, after three months of hoping for it, his brain was simply trying to relieve a little of his stress by creating vivid hallucinations of what it thought might make him happy. So his brain, amazing as he knew that all brains were from all the time that he'd spent reading about them to understand his patients, created sensations for him.

His brain could create sounds that his ears didn't know how to distinguish from real sounds. His brain could create visions that fooled his eyes. His brain could make him positive that he saw and he heard things that were impossible. Things that never happened. And his brain would do it all just because he'd been so focused on Carol's recovery that he'd been sending signals to his brain, for three months, that there was almost nothing in the world that would make him happier.

So now, sitting on the tailgate of his truck, Daryl was consciously exercising his brain. He was having a talk with it without using any words that he had to produce with his mouth. His brain and he, after all, were very intimately connected.

He was forcing his brain to notice reality around him. To record it. To play it back to him. What was he touching? What did it feel like? What was the reality of the weather around him? The metal of the truck under his hand? The cigarette in his fingers? What did the cigarette feel like against his lips? What did the nicotine hit feel like when it reached his tired brain? What did he smell? The burger place down the street—they made greasy and delicious hamburgers and he might have one on his way home from work. The smell of the cafeteria. It was taco day and he had gotten his lunch in a bowl because, rational or not, he got upset if the shell broke and the contents fell out of his taco before he could enjoy it. What could he taste? The leftover taste of the cigarette smoke. What could he hear? The sound of some birds far off. The sound of a very gentle breeze brushing through the branches of the tree that was across the lot from him. And what could he see? The parking lot. The back part of it because he sat with his back to the building. The other cars that he counted: one, two, three, to draw himself back to reality entirely.

Daryl lit another cigarette, despite the fact that he could probably do without it, and snubbed the first out entirely on the tailgate. He flicked it into the back of the truck and took a deep breath of the clean air before he drew off the second cigarette again.

He wasn't losing his mind at all. He felt fine. He was feeling better with each passing moment. He didn't need to worry about his sanity, he only needed a moment to ground himself in reality and remind his mind that, although it was kind to offer to paint for him a picture of something that just wasn't there, he really didn't need it.

When he finished the cigarette, he'd go back inside. He'd finish up his evening rounds, get everyone ready for the night nurse to care for them, and he'd go to the locker room. He'd change his clothes and wash his face. He'd go to the burger joint—pick something up to go—and he'd go home to eat it on the couch while he watched something on television. Something light and funny. Something that required no concentration. Then he'd go to sleep, early, and make sure that he got enough rest tonight.

Tomorrow he wouldn't need to ground himself again. With any luck, this wouldn't happen for another few months since it had been at least a half a year since it had been this bad.

When Daryl finished the cigarette and, assured it was out, flicked it into the back of his truck, he hopped down off the tailgate. He stretched his back and stretched his knees and rolled his shoulders, studying each sensation as he did so. He closed the tailgate and winced at the loud metallic clang of the metal.

He planned to walk at least two laps around the truck, before he went back inside, just to get the blood flowing again. But as he started around the truck, he noticed Jake, one of the young nurses, coming out of the building. Instead of heading for his own vehicle, or stopping to light a cigarette, Jake was coming right in Daryl's direction. Daryl furrowed his brow at him and started toward the boy to meet him halfway.

"Somethin' up?" Daryl called at him.

"You might want to come in here," Jake said. "I think we need to get Dr. Pitts to come down here."

"What's wrong?" Daryl asked, speeding his steps and passing Jake in a rush back toward the building, before he even had an answer.

"I just went in to check on her," Jake said, jogging behind Daryl. "But—I don't know if it's a reaction or what...I wasn't sure what to do. She's not coding and there's nothing registering on the monitors as out of the ordinary. I thought you should take a look."

Daryl dropped into a full out run, then, sure that everyone would get out of his way. He didn't have to ask Jake who it was. He simply _knew_. And, in the pit of his stomach, he knew that one of two things was happening right now—and he was hoping for the best while preparing for the worst.


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: Here we go, another chapter. Though I'm not sure it's quite the one that you all want. Thanks for letting me know that you're enjoying this!**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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Daryl ordered sedation as he ran past the station so that it would be there, almost immediately, if he needed it. There could be a few things that were happening and Daryl, by now, was familiar with all of them. Jake, running behind him, was filling him in on things, but Daryl was only taking in the most absolutely necessary information. She was moving. Maybe she was coming around, but all he really knew was that there was some movement. There were some sounds. He could hear them the closer he got to her room.

It could be a seizure. Daryl had seen those before. It could be her body's response to a decision it made to give up on her life. Sometimes his patients would seize, at the end, and then they were gone. If she were waking, it could be slow and gradual—like waking from the deep sleep she appeared to be lost in for all this time—or it could be violent and potentially dangerous to her. There were several ways that it could go and Daryl was prepared, he hoped, for all of them.

When he got to her room, the two nurses that were in there scattered to make room for him. It appeared that Carol's reaction to whatever was happening wasn't going to be the slow and peaceful waking from a dream. The noises she was making where almost unhuman and Daryl didn't know, immediately, if they were born of fear or pain. He jerked the pillow from behind her head and tossed it to the side before he hit the button her bed to flatten her position.

"Carol? It's Daryl," Daryl said, trying to keep his voice as even as he possibly could. "You're at Spring Valley. You're OK. We're going to make sure you're OK. You need to stay calm, OK? You gotta stay calm."

It wasn't always easy to tell a patient—whether it was his patient or someone else's that he was helping with—that they had to stay calm. It was especially difficult when you didn't feel calm yourself. In his role, Daryl feared that every decision he made would be the wrong decision. He could save a life, but he wasn't foolish enough to think that he was some kind of benevolent god. He could end a life just as easily—and not because he wanted to.

"Get me sedation," Daryl said, getting his hands on Carol as she thrashed against him, anyone who came near her, and her own body. The concerns that she wasn't registering as "odd" on any of the monitors were off the table right now because her heartrate had gone dangerously high. She was panicking and Daryl had to bring her back down. "And get Dr. Pitts on the phone. Tell him to get down here as quick as he can."

As soon as the medicine hit her blood stream, it was obvious. She went almost entirely limp and Daryl corrected her oxygen, the tube moved in her thrashing, to ensure that she'd get plenty. She looked at him, her eyes still open for a moment, calm for the short period before she'd drop off into a sleep that he knew they could wake her from.

"When you wake up?" Daryl said. "I'm going to be here, OK? You gotta stay calm and we'll talk you through it. OK? You're going to be all right."

When she dropped off, Daryl checked her monitors. Slowly everything was regulating. He looked around him and, in the madness, he'd drawn an audience. Most of them were staring at him wide-eyed. He laughed, ironically, to himself.

"What?" He asked. "Things get exciting on my end too. Dr. Pitts?"

"I already put in a call," one of the nurses offered. "He's not available right this minute but I told them it was an emergency."

Daryl nodded at her.

"Was that a seizure?" Jake asked.

Daryl laughed ironically to himself and shook his head at the young nurse.

"I'm not a doctor," he teased. "But I'd say it was good old fashioned fight or flight. You wake up in a strange place, surrounded by strange people, with shit coming out of every damn part of your body—and then you tell me how you feel. Panic, that's all."

"She's going to wake up again?" Jake asked.

Daryl nodded.

"Looks like her brain's healed. I'm at least ninety percent sure she will," Daryl admitted. "But this time? I'm going to be right here. Start calming her from the start. Don't give her the time or space to panic. I should've caught it earlier. Someone? Take over my shift for the rest of the day with the other patients? I'm not leaving her until this is under control. Mark me down as taking some of my personal time if that's what you need to do. And—get Dr. Pitts in here? The minute he gets here?"

"What about her family?" Daryl heard the question come, but he didn't hear who had been the one to put voice to it. The question was a reasonable one and he'd already thought about that.

"I'll call her daughter," Daryl said. "You just worry about Dr. Pitts. I'll get Sophia on the phone."

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Daryl listened to the tone of the phone buzzing in his ear again. It would be his third call to Sophia. The first he'd made without planning out what he was going to say and he'd forgotten some of the major details on the message he'd left. Primarily he'd forgotten to tell Sophia not to worry. He was calling, and it was important that she called him back as soon as possible, but she didn't need to worry. He'd covered that in the second call but he'd forgotten to leave his number. He assumed that she had it, as she'd called him plenty of times before, but he didn't know how the whole thing might affect her and, sometimes, it was difficult to handle even regular tasks when your nerves were on end.

So now he was on the third call and he was rehearsing, in his head, what he would say to her machine. This was the part of his job that he was the worst at—communicating with patients' families. He could work with his patients all day long, because he found them to be very forgiving when you were helping them, even when they were conscious, but the families could be a different story entirely. Most of them were warm and receptive. Most of them appreciated his efforts and were good at listening. Others, from time to time, seemed overly aggressive because of their own heightened emotions.

He didn't know what to expect from Sophia—not when he was bothering her in the middle of the evening and not when she was concerned about her mother.

Daryl was surprised, though, when the machine didn't pick up this time. Instead, he heard Sophia's voice as she poised "Hello" to him as though she weren't sure that anyone would be on the phone. It caught him off guard and he straightened up in his chair beside Carol's bed and cleared his throat.

"Sophia?" He asked. "This is Daryl. Daryl Dixon? Calling from Spring Valley?"

"I was just about to call you. What's wrong with my mother?" Sophia asked, cutting straight to the point.

Daryl glanced at Carol. He was sitting there, holding her hand in his so that he'd be prepared to handle the situation the moment that she started to wake from the sedation, but she wasn't awake yet. She looked different already, though.

"Nothing's wrong," Daryl said. "She—uh—she came to not too long ago. When I called you the first time. She panicked and she's sedated, but she should be waking up soon. Dr. Pitts has been down here already and he's ordered some tests. Some scans. They'll transfer her to County, temporarily, just to run the scans, but they'll bring her right back here. We just don't have the equipment that he needs. It's about a ten minute ambulance ride each way without the sirens. So they'll bring her back when they're done. She won't sleep there or anything. They won't admit her. If that's what you want."

"Mama's awake?" Sophia asked.

Daryl smiled to himself. The woman, who was clearly a no-nonsense businesswoman, suddenly sounded like a little girl on the phone. He nodded, but she wouldn't see the movement.

"Yeah," he said. "She's awake. Not right now. Not right this minute. But soon."

"How is she?" Sophia asked, her voice maintaining the different quality that it had picked up.

Daryl rubbed his fingers over the hand of the woman.

"Don't know too much yet. She was scared," he admitted. "But that's normal. I'm going to stay with her until she's calm—when she wakes up again? I'm going to stay with her, right here, and I'm going to try to get her not to be scared again. But she's OK. She's stable. Everything's fine. She's just ready to start coming out of this. She's on the—other side of it now."

"You're with her?" Sophia asked.

"Right here," Daryl said. He swallowed. If he was going to deal with the families, this was how he wanted to deal with them. He could hear it in Sophia's voice. She was half a country away and all she wanted to know, right now, was that someone was there, holding her mother's hand, because she couldn't be. "I got my hand on her. But they're gonna need to know what you want to do."

"What I want to do?" Sophia asked. "What do you mean? What would I want to do?"

"She can recover here," Daryl said. "Or you can transfer her somewhere else."

"I chose Spring Valley for her to recover," Sophia said. "That's what she's doing and that's where I want her."

Daryl nodded again.

"So you just tell them that," Daryl said. "You're gonna get a few phone calls in the next couple of days. You just ask whatever questions you have. You answer their questions how you want. They're gonna ask you, too, if you want to transfer her to a different ward. Within Spring Valley. I think they'll move her to active patient recovery."

"Why would they move her?" Sophia asked.

Daryl swallowed. He didn't want to tell her it was because she didn't belong in the vegetable garden if she came out of this well, even if that's what his brain offered him as a knee-jerk response.

"Just puts her with other patients who are in the active stages of recovery," Daryl said. "That's all."

"Can she stay where she is?" Sophia asked. "With you?"

Daryl didn't know what the woman was doing, but it was clear that she had to be at least a little bit distracted. There was noise on her end of the phone. There was the sound, once or twice, like she almost dropped the phone or like she scrubbed it roughly across a surface.

"She can stay with me," Daryl said. "But you do have the option to move her if you want. I just want you to know what they're going to ask. I want you to know that you've got options. Sometimes—depending on who makes the call? They can be a little overwhelming."

"Can you do everything that they could do?" Sophia asked. "I mean—can she get what she needs with you? Now that she's..." Sophia hesitated long enough that Daryl almost thought the call had dropped. The only thing that kept him from asking if they'd been disconnected was the fact that he could still hear the background noise on Sophia's end of the line. "Awake?" Sophia finally said, the word taking more effort than any of the others.

"I can do whatever she needs me to do," Daryl said. "And it's the same building. Same facilities. It would just mean a different nurse. Different patients in the rooms around her. But it's up to you."

"I want her staying right where she is," Sophia said, almost yelling into the phone. "I'm sorry," she said, softening her voice. "I'm sorry. I want her to stay—where she is. I understand moving her for the tests, if they have to, but I want her right where she is. That room. That bed. You."

"Then that's what I'll tell them and that's what you'll tell them," Daryl said. "Just want you to know you got a lot of options."

"Daryl—I haven't seen my mother awake in almost a year," Sophia said. She didn't say anything after that, though Daryl gave her a few moments of silence to see if she'd add anything else.

"She's gonna be just fine," Daryl said. "Looking better already and—we're going to do everything we can."

"I'm coming," Sophia said. "I already got a flight. I'm leaving out tonight. I'll be there tomorrow."

"Just be careful," Daryl said. "She's not going anywhere, but I know she's gonna be happy to see you. I'll have my phone on me the whole time. You can call me if you want my direct line or you can call the center."

"Daryl?" Sophia asked. Daryl hummed at her. "Thank you," Sophia said.

"Didn't do nothing," Daryl said. "She's done it all herself. Have a good flight."


	6. Chapter 6

**AN: So, admittedly, this is a little bit of a transition chapter, but it had to happen. There's more to come.**

 **I hope that you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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Daryl had orders to text Dr. Pitts the moment that he thought Carol was ready to be transferred to County for the tests and scans. They weren't urgent enough that they couldn't be put off for at least a short amount of time and the doctor didn't want her to come out of her sedation and panic mid-transfer. It would be better if they didn't have to sedate her again, and that would be easier if she were calm and willing to cooperate.

When his time to clock out came, Daryl ignored it. He'd stay the night, if that's what he needed to do, to try to make sure that he could talk her down from any panic. He had days to spare and then some, and he'd take them if he had to.

He started to worry a little, as the time ticked by, that he'd made the wrong call in sedating her at all. He started to worry that he might have done something and she wasn't going to come back out of it. Even good intentions, he knew, could sometimes have some bad results.

But, eventually, she started to come around.

As soon as Daryl had any indication that she was waking from the sedation, he positioned himself so that she would see him and he started talking to her. He kept his voice low and calm. What he said, until she was awake, didn't really matter that much, so he just started chatting with her. He told her that he was there. He told her that she was going to be fine. That she was going to be better than fine. He told her that he'd talked to Sophia and that the girl was happy—so very happy—that she was feeling better. She'd be coming to see her soon.

And it seemed to work.

She gradually came around and, as she opened her eyes, there was a jolt of shock with her entry into full consciousness. Daryl saw it the moment it happened and was able to get it under control much faster than he would have gotten her previous attack of nerves under control.

"Ssshhhhh," he hissed. "It's OK. You're OK. It's Daryl. Can you look at me?"

She turned her face to look at him, her brows furrowed probably from sensitivity to the light as much as anything else. Daryl couldn't help but smile at her. His heart leapt around in his chest to see that she was actually _there_. She was actually conscious and she was actually responding.

He knew he wasn't supposed to talk too much about what had happened or what was going on. They had no idea of what might be going on with her brain right now. They had no idea what she might be processing. They also had no idea how certain emotional responses might affect her. In short, until she was evaluated, it was best to keep things as neutral as possible. Daryl needed to give her enough information to keep her calm, but Dr. Pitts needed to have a visit with her before Daryl went filling in too much information. He was supposed to keep it "casual" until he was sure that she'd cooperate with the trip to county.

When she got back, he'd be filled in on everything they found out and everything he needed to know to proceed with her care.

"Hey," Daryl said. "Carol? Can you tell me if you're—in any pain?"

Some of his patients couldn't breathe on their own. Some of them were on respirators. Carol had been breathing on her own since she'd come to Spring Valley. Her brain, it seemed, was the only part of her body that had sustained a great deal of lasting trauma. Everything else, though it would take some time to get it up and functioning at a level that most people considered _normal_ , had never really shut down on her entirely. She could speak to him, if she had any inclination to do so. There was nothing blocking her airway or obstructing her vocal cord movement.

She blinked at him and tried to shake her head.

"Can you talk to me?" Daryl asked. "Are you in any pain?"

"No," she said, quietly, her voice coming out in the hoarse bark that he expected. It would take a little time before her voice didn't have a certain harshness to it. She glanced around and seemed to consider it the question again. "No," she repeated.

"Good," Daryl said. "That's good. You—uh—are probably stiff, maybe. But as long as you don't have any real pain? That's good. If you do, though, you need to let me know. We'll get you something for it. We'll fix it." Carol looked back at him, the expression of concern hadn't faded. Daryl did notice, though, that where he held her hand, he could feel her fingers moving. She was testing out her movement—she was touching his skin for the sensation of it.

"My throat's...sore," Carol said. "Dry. It hurts."

Daryl nodded at her.

"I'm going to see about getting you something for that, OK? But—just not yet. You feel a little thirsty, but I've got an IV going here, so you're getting some fluids, OK?" Daryl offered. She didn't say if it was OK or not, but it would have to be. Daryl hadn't let on to Sophia that the situation was delicate, but in cases like this it always was. He wasn't going to make any moves until she'd been evaluated. Even something as simple as a drink of water could have negative effects. At the end of the day, he wasn't a doctor and he wasn't making any moves, in this case, without the advice and approval of a doctor. "Carol? I need to talk to you for a minute, OK? Do you think—you could listen to me for a minute?"

Carol looked at him.

"What's happening?" She asked.

He nodded at her.

"That's what I'm going to tell you, OK?" Daryl offered. She simply stared at him and he took that as her approval of his offer to give her more information. "You were in an accident," Daryl said. "Now—you're OK now. You're fine. And I talked to your daughter, Sophia, and she's coming. She'll be here tomorrow to see you. I'll stay with you until she gets here, if you want. But—they need to take you somewhere. They need to take you to the other hospital for just a little while. They need to run some tests. They need to talk to you and run some scans on your brain. I don't want you to get scared, because it's not scary. It's just—making sure that everything is all right and making sure that we're going to get you the best care that we can. Is that OK?"

"I was in an accident?" Carol asked.

Daryl nodded.

"Car accident," Daryl said. "But you're OK."

"My daughter's OK?" Carol asked.

Daryl bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from showing any kind of reaction to her questions. He nodded and put a smile on as his _chosen_ reaction. He squeezed Carol's hand.

"Sophia's just fine," he said. "She wasn't in the car with you. You were in the car alone. She's coming tomorrow to see you. She's excited."

"I was in an accident by myself?" Carol asked.

Daryl shook his head. He worried that he was venturing into territory that he wasn't supposed to be venturing into. Before he answered her, he reached for his phone and sent through a text message to the number that Dr. Pitts had asked him to use for contacting him. It was his personal phone and he'd be sure to get the message no matter what he was doing.

Carol was calm and she'd cooperate. Daryl was sure of that. She wasn't going to cause anyone any problems and she wasn't going to cause herself any harm either. All they had to do was remain calm and she would remain calm—that was evident enough. They wouldn't need to sedate her again.

"Drunk driver hit you," Daryl said. "They didn't make it and you had to be helicoptered out. But that doesn't matter. What matters right now is that you're OK. And they're coming soon to get you, OK? They're just going to take you over to county and run the tests, and then they'll bring you back here. Sound good?"

"None of it sounds very good," Carol said.

Daryl bit the inside of his cheek again not to laugh. He didn't know if she meant for her statement to be as funny as it was at the moment. It was hard to say if her sense of humor might be intact.

"It's gonna be OK," he assured her.

"You're going with me?" Carol asked.

"Where?" Daryl asked.

"When they come? You're going with me?" Carol clarified.

Daryl shook his head.

"It's just an ambulance ride and some tests," he said. "You'll have doctors and nurses there. People to take care of you. You won't need me there."

He'd turned her monitor volume on low, while he was waiting for her to wake, and now he could hear it beeping quietly. Her pulse picked up at the confirmation that he wasn't going with her. She tensed and started to shake her head slightly. She was threatening to lose her composure.

"Easy," Daryl said quickly. "It's OK. I'm going to be here when you get back. Right when they bring you back, I'll see you. It's just—there really isn't any room for me there. There's nothing that I can do. You're gonna be really well taken care of and you're not going to even notice that I'm not there. They're going to keep you busy the whole time they've got you." She just shook her head at him again, but she did seem to be calming once more. "The important thing," Daryl continued, "is that you stay calm. OK? We don't want you hurting yourself. Can you stay calm? For me?"

"I don't..." Carol started, but then she stopped.

"You don't what?" Daryl asked. He heard his phone buzz and he moved to pick it up. The message that came back told him that he had ten minutes to get her calm and ready to go. They'd come in and get her. "You don't what, Carol?" He repeated.

"I don't want to go alone," Carol said. She looked at him hard enough he could almost feel it. "I'm scared," she admitted.

Daryl knew that fear was going to be a very normal emotion for her right now. He also knew how hard it was, sometimes, for people to admit that they were scared. They got the idea, somewhere, that they weren't allowed to be scared—that fear made them weak. What they had to realize, as the long days went on, was that fear was the body's natural response to everything that was happening to them—and just being there was proof that they weren't weak.

Daryl smiled at her and rubbed his thumb over her hand that he was still holding.

"It's OK to be scared," he said. "But you got nothing to be scared of. When they get here? We're going to get you moved so they can take you. Take care of the cords and the—everything. Get you ready for transfer. But you don't have to do anything. We'll get you moved. You just relax and—help out if we ask you to. They're gonna take really good care of you. Now—I can't go with you because there just isn't room for me and they're gonna be here in just a few minutes. But—I'm going to be right here when you get back, OK? It won't be long. They'll have you back in a couple of hours tops. And I'll wait for you."

"You're waiting for me?" Carol asked.

Daryl nodded.

"I'll wait for you," he assured her. "Maybe check on Sophia. Make sure her flight went OK and she's—settling in. You want me to tell her something for you? You want to give her a message or something? I'll tell her. Make sure she gets it."

Carol took her time speaking to him again.

"I love her," Carol said.

Daryl smiled and nodded.

"I think that's a good message," he said. "Now—come on. Let me help you get ready before they get here. You gotta be ready for your trip."


	7. Chapter 7

**AN: Here we go, another chapter.**

 **"Tomorrow" we get to see Sophia.**

 **I hope that you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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Daryl had kept his promise of waiting at Spring Valley until Carol was brought back—even though they didn't bring her back until the early hours of the morning. She was tired and overstimulated from so much so fast. She was sore from movement that her body wasn't entirely used to anymore and from their manipulations for one position or another that she needed to achieve, and the information that she'd been told hadn't fully sank in for her.

Daryl had talked on the phone to Dr. Pitts and it hadn't all sank in for him either, but he was blaming most of it on the need for sleep. Tomorrow he would talk about it more with Sophia, when the young woman came and after she'd met with Dr. Pitts, and tomorrow they would see how much of it Carol actually retained.

Her brain was still healing and her situation was, in all reality, somewhat uncommon. She suffered from amnesia, but it didn't seem to be a total loss of memory and it wasn't restricted, as they might have suspected, to just one era of time or another. From the simple questions she'd been asked, she seemed to have some memories from all different times in her life, but it was clear that it wasn't _all_ there. The nature of her amnesia, itself, was going to have to be studied a little more in depth to fully understand it. She was told, for the time being, that she simply had "partial" amnesia and that they would work with her to recover her memories and to monitor her memory's healing. For now, she seemed content with that. She was, at least, as content as she could be with anything.

They didn't know how much she'd lost, and neither did she. Daryl knew that amnesia patients were usually saddened by the realization of their loss and that frustration, when they tried to remember something they couldn't, followed. Carol wasn't emotionally there yet—and they were going to try to keep her from growing too upset.

Because her brain was healing, and it would continue to heal. There was no reason to believe that she wouldn't make a full recovery with most, if not all, of her memories intact.

Daryl talked to Dr. Pitt while they were transferring Carol back to Spring Valley so that, when she arrived, he was even more caught up on her situation that she was. He helped them get her into a clean bed and got her situated. After they were alone, he checked her over once more to make sure that everything was as it should be.

"How you feeling?" Daryl asked her. Her face might have answered the question for him, but he wanted her to answer him.

She looked at him.

"Great," she responded. Neither her voice nor her facial expression went with the word, and Daryl laughed to himself. This time he didn't have to ask himself if she was being intentionally funny.

"That's good," he said. "Humor is going to get you a long way. Did they give you any water yet? Because you can have it if you still want it."

He'd brought the water just in case and Carol let him know that she wanted it, though she neglected to tell him if she'd already had some. It wouldn't matter. It was water and she would let them know if she wasn't handling it well. Daryl brought the cup to her and she moved to try to take it from him. He let her wrap her hands around his, but he didn't release the cup into her possession entirely. He helped her direct the straw into her mouth.

"Sip," he commanded. "Not too much. Not yet. Gotta take things slow."

"Everything's slow," Carol said when she moved her mouth away from the straw.

"Slow and steady," Daryl responded. "We'll get there, but going too fast? It can sometimes cause a lot more harm than good. Now—listen—I know it's been a big day for you. For me too. I gotta sleep and so do you. I checked. Brandon is your nurse tonight. He'll be coming in and bothering you. Waking you up to check your vitals and all that good stuff—but you gotta try to sleep. And I'll be back in the morning—couple hours, really."

"I'm supposed to sleep?" Carol asked.

"You want me to get you something?" Daryl asked. "Because—you can have something to help you. But—one of the slow things? It's gonna be getting you used to sleeping and waking when everybody else is."

Carol shook her head against her pillow.

"No," she said. "No—I don't want anything to sleep."

Daryl nodded his acceptance of her decision, but he could see that she was battling with something. His eyes were burning, his body was aching, and he wanted desperately to sleep himself, especially knowing that he had full intentions to be back in a few hours to work another day, but he didn't feel like he could leave her. Not yet. He moved to the chair beside her bed, slid it a little closer, and sat down.

"Close your eyes," he said, seeing that she was watching everything he was doing. "Close 'em," he repeated when she didn't do what he'd asked. She sighed and closed her eyes. He reached and touched her hand and she folded her fingers around his hand and squeezed it. Sometimes his job was saving lives with medication that someone needed. Sometimes it was holding hands. "Tomorrow's a big day," Daryl said. "What do you—hope is gonna happen tomorrow?"

"Do I have any control over that?" Carol asked.

Daryl swallowed.

"You got a lot of control over that," Daryl said. "One thing I know that's gonna happen? We're gonna start getting you more control over everything. What do you want to happen tomorrow? With your healing. What do you want to happen medically? Keep your eyes closed."

"I want to drink more than a sip of water," Carol said with a quiet laugh.

"Done," Daryl said. "You keep it down? I'll do you better. You can try—you like Jello?"

"Not a lot," Carol admitted.

"You'll love it," Daryl said. "We make the best Jello you ever had. Almost any flavor you want, but the red's the best. Strawberry I think. Could be cherry. Broth too—good enough to go around telling people about it. Warm and a little salty if you like that. You wanna try some of that?"

"That's all I eat?" Carol asked.

Daryl laughed to himself.

"No," he admitted. "You've been a big fan of formula. And you'll get some of that tomorrow, too, but you won't drink it. I'll make sure you get your calories in. What else?"

"Can I get up?" Carol asked.

"You can sit up," Daryl said. "And—we'll go from there. OK? See how you're feeling. You might be a lot more tired than you think you will be."

"From sitting?" Carol asked.

"Uses a lot of muscles to sit without help," Daryl said. "What else you got? Just—what do you want?"

Carol sighed.

"To see Sophia," she said.

"And you will," Daryl said. "She's gonna come as soon as she can tomorrow. So you can—think about what you want to say."

"What do I look like?" Carol asked.

"What?" Daryl asked.

"What do I look like?" Carol asked. "I haven't seen myself. What do I look like? Sophia—is so protective of me. Do I look bad? Is she going to...be scared?"

Daryl leaned up a little and looked at her. Maybe she didn't look like she wanted to look—he couldn't speak for that—but she was pretty. She was prettier now, animated and looking healthier by the moment, than she'd been since she arrived. He'd seen pictures of her, enough of them, from before the accident and from when Sophia was a little girl that he could say that she had changed—but she was still the same person. She was still pretty.

"You look good," Daryl said. "Best I've seen you look in a while. Most of your scars? From the accident and the surgeries? You can't see them because your hair covers them up. Or your gown does. Your face is perfect—just like it's always been. Sophia's gonna love the way you look, no matter what, though. Trust me."

Carol laughed to herself.

"Like you?" She asked. "She'll say I'm perfect if I'm not? She'll _think_ I'm perfect."

Daryl was struck by the comment and his stomach did a little dance. He hesitated a moment, not sure how to answer her. But it seemed, to him, as innocent as any statement that she'd made so far.

"Yeah," he said. "Like me. She's happy to see you awake. That's what matters. But..." he hesitated a moment and took inventory of himself. Rapidly he thought about all he'd have to do the next day and how he might shift his schedule around so that he could give her a little extra attention without neglecting anyone—but most of his patients didn't mind a little change to the routine. "If you're worried? First thing in the morning? I'll wash your hair. We'll get you fixed up for Sophia. Looking the best you can. Fair enough?" Carol turned and looked at him then. "Close your eyes," he reminded her. She ignored him.

"You take care of me," Carol said.

Daryl nodded.

"Yeah," he said. "That's what I do. Close your eyes." She did, this time. "You want to do that? Get me to wash your hair before you visit with her?"

"Yeah," Carol responded quietly.

"Then you gotta go to sleep," Daryl said. "You gotta let me get some sleep and you gotta get some sleep. Can you do that? Keep your eyes closed and—think about things you wanna say to Sophia until you fall asleep? I'm gonna stay here tonight. In our on-call room. Just down the hall a bit. I'll shower here, but that don't take me long. Brandon will take care of you and if you need me? You just tell him. He'll find me." Daryl stood up, but Carol tightened her grip on his hand, even though she didn't open her eyes. "It's just a few hours," Daryl said, beginning to worry. He could understand her concern—she was overwhelmed and being alone with that? Being alone with everything she might be feeling, could be a lot to face, even if it was for only a few hours. But it was something she had to do. He couldn't stay with her always. "You sure you don't want me to get you something?"

Carol opened her eyes again and shook her head gently. Her expression changed. She'd remained pretty jovial, especially considering her situation, _until now_.

"I don't want to go to sleep," she said.

"Not tired?" Daryl asked.

"Scared," Carol admitted.

"What are you scared of?" Daryl asked. "You're in good hands with Brandon. I'm right down the hall. There's a lotta people working here, even, that's in between the two of us. You're in really, really good hands."

Carol tightened her grip on his hand again, squeezing it harder than he expected from her.

"What if I go to sleep, and—I just don't wake up again?" Carol asked.

Daryl's stomach flipped. He didn't want to admit that they all worried about that. It was a natural reaction to her waking. There was no medical reason to assume that she might not wake up again—but it didn't mean that the brain, complicated and wonderful as it was, didn't offer that as a possibility. Daryl wasn't going to tell her that, though, because she didn't need to know that he had worries. She didn't need to know that he sometimes had doubts. She just needed to know that he was sure and he was positive—and everything was going to be as fine as he had any power to make it. She didn't need to know that he had relatively little power in the universe.

"You can rest easy," Daryl said. "Your brain? It's been through a lot. But it's healing now. If it weren't? You wouldn't be awake right now and talking to me like nothing happened. You're gonna wake up. More times than you want because Brandon? He's good but I've heard he's not quiet. He'll wake you up for every vitals check and then? Before you know it, I'll be in here waking you up to get you cleaned up. So—don't you worry about waking up. You worry about getting to sleep. OK?"

Carol nodded her head.

"You're sure you don't want something to sleep?" Daryl asked.

She shook her head again.

"I'm fine," she said. "I can do it on my own. Getting back to normal, right? Just—close my eyes and go...go back to sleep."

"That's the idea," Daryl said.

He peeled his hand out of hers, not sure she even realized that she was still holding onto him. He rested her hand on her stomach, like he was used to doing when he put it down for any reason, because he still wasn't used to the idea that she could choose her own position—or that she was really able to interact with him, even.

"Sleep good," Daryl said. "I'll see you in the morning. But—I meant what I said. You need me? You tell him. He'll get me."

Carol nodded.

"Goodnight," she offered. He echoed her wish for a good night. "Thanks," she said. "For—everything."

Daryl smiled to himself.

"Don't mention it," Daryl said. "It's just what I do."


	8. Chapter 8

**AN: Here we are, another chapter.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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Sophia got Daryl's attention by leaning into the room where he was working and quietly calling his name until he noticed her. Maybe she feared disturbing his patient, or maybe she didn't want anyone to know about her presence yet. She was later than he'd expected—he'd assumed she'd arrive as early as she could—but he wasn't there to judge her. He asked her to wait, outside, until he was done and when he finished, he met her in the hallway.

"Nobody showed you where her room was?" Daryl asked. He knew that wasn't the real reason that Sophia wasn't with her mother—if she could find him, she could look around the rooms and find her mother—but it was a way to get the conversation going.

"Can I talk to you?" Sophia asked. "In private?"

Daryl nodded. He waved at her to go with him and he led her out of the building and into the parking lot. Nobody stopped them, though Rebecca waved at him from the nurse's station.

"I'm on break," he said, opening his truck and going after the pack of cigarettes he'd stuck in the visor that morning. "So you got about fifteen or twenty minutes before I need to get going again. I've always got something to do around here. You care if I smoke?"

"I don't care what you do," Sophia said. "You brought my mother back."

Daryl laughed to himself and shook his head.

"Didn't do anything," he said. Sophia cocked an eyebrow at him and he resisted the urge to let her know, now that he knew a little more about her mother's personality, that she resembled her mother. Their features might not be the same, exactly, but he could already tell that their personalities would be similar. "I didn't," he insisted. "She woke up because she's been in there fighting all this time. She woke up because her brain healed enough to _let_ her wake up. All I've done? Is be there to make sure that she gets what she needs—what she can't get herself—to keep on doing the fighting she's been doing."

"You can call it what you want," Sophia said, "but I have my own ways of looking at it. She's been gone for a long time. Nobody else was able to bring her back. Not before she got here."

"Sometimes it takes a while," Daryl said, focusing on his cigarette for a moment. "Sometimes? It just don't ever happen. But—I ain't no miracle worker. Look somewhere else for your personal Helen Keller."

"Anne Sullivan," Sophia said. It was Daryl's turn to cock an eyebrow at her and she fidgeted slightly from one foot to the other. "Anne Sullivan was the miracle worker," Sophia said. "Helen Keller was—who she worked with."

"Same, same," Daryl said. "It ain't me. Neither one."

"I talked to Dr. Pitts," Sophia said. "I met with him this morning. He's taking care of everything with her condition. I talked to the director of Spring Valley and she'll be staying here. With you. Until she's ready to go home. I talked to Rhonda Hensley. She's going to be handling physical therapy when you think Mama's ready for it. Is there anything else that I can do? Anything else that needs to be taken care of?"

Daryl chewed at his lip. Sophia seemed like a very no-nonsense kind of woman. Everything about her told him that she was one of those business women—and she had to be for the lifestyle she was already leading at such a young age—that knew what she wanted and what she needed and she just plowed straight ahead until she got it. She wanted to treat her mother's recovery the same way. She knew what she wanted and she wanted to plow right on into it. But that wasn't how recovery worked.

"You've done all you can do for now," Daryl said. "Medically speaking. But—you got to realize that it ain't going to be fast. It's gonna be slow. Really, really slow. Some days? It's going to seem like it ain't moving at all. Others? It's going to seem like it's moving _backwards_. Every little thing? Every tiny little thing? That's a victory in my line of work. I've worked in a couple of rehab positions and it's always the same. Slow and steady is the best thing you can ask for. Go too fast? You could lose the ground you covered already."

Sophia looked a little saddened by this.

"If she's back? I just want her back," Sophia said.

Daryl nodded his head.

Sophia was a no-nonsense businesswoman. She was possibly a shark that would tear into anyone that tried to get in her way. She certainly carried herself like a force to be reckoned with. But she was also a little girl. A little girl, all grown up, who wanted her mama.

"She's back," Daryl said. "Just—maybe not all the way. And you gotta be OK with that. You gotta support her. Because right now? She's got a hell of a road ahead of her and nobody can do for her what she's got to do to get better. You got to support _everything_. Every victory, no matter how small? It's a victory."

"And that's what you're here for," Sophia said. "To remind me of that. And to—help me navigate this. I've never done this before."

Daryl nodded.

"And neither has she," he said.

"I was starting to believe," Sophia said, dropping her words at the end. She started up again when she was ready. "I believed that she wasn't ever coming back. I gave up on her." She rolled her eyes toward Daryl then. "Does that make me a horrible person? I gave up on my Mama."

Daryl swallowed and shook his head.

"Makes you human," Daryl said. "If I had a nickel for everyone that I met that just—give up on someone? I could retire. I wouldn't, but I _could_." He shrugged. "Hell—feelings are feelings. You can have whatever feelings you happen to have and you can't change what you did have. But—don't give up on her now?"

"I won't," Sophia said quietly, dropping her eyes away from Daryl. Maybe she was ashamed of how she'd felt. Maybe it was something else. She just didn't want to look at him, for the moment, and he could understand that.

Sophia sighed and looked around the parking lot to keep avoiding looking at Daryl. Daryl finished his cigarette and went through his normal routine of assuring it was out before he flicked it into the back of the truck. He stretched his knees and his back with purpose and watched Sophia out of the corner of her eye while she looked around the parking lot like something interesting was bound to appear out of nowhere.

"Ready to go back in?" Daryl asked. Sophia looked at him like she hadn't expected to be addressed. "I'm done—if you're ready to go back in." She pursed her lips at him and hesitated. He offered her a smile. "You've done everything you can," Daryl said. "Now? You gotta do the most important thing. You gotta go in there and see your Mama."

"What if she doesn't know me?" Sophia asked. "Dr. Pitts said she was having a lot of trouble with her memory and you don't really know how far it goes or how long she's retaining things."

"If she don't know you?" Daryl said. "Then we'll introduce you. Today and every day until that part of her brain heals. But she's going to know you. I helped her get ready this morning and she knew you then. She remembered you all night." Sophia nodded her head, but her eyes were still darting around. Daryl had already seen that behavior, too, in her mother. He cleared his throat. "Does it help if I tell you that she's nervous too?"

Sophia looked at him and opened her mouth slightly. Then she closed it. Daryl smiled at her.

"How'd you know?" She asked.

"'Cause it only makes sense," Daryl said. "Big day for both of you. But—there ain't no need to be nervous. She looks good. Color in her face and everything. Looking forward to trying to keep something down—which I'm going to get her in just a few minutes when the cafeteria's running and I can look over their selection a little more carefully. Looking forward to seeing you. Just sitting with you. Can you handle that? She's really liking holding hands. Sit with her and hold her hand?"

Sophia looked at him like he was stupid for a split second and then she sighed.

"Of course," she said.

"Good," Daryl said. "Then prove it. Let's go."

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Every time that Daryl had walked into Carol's room that day, she was happy to see him. She extended a hand and offered it to him. She expected him to take it and squeeze it. She returned the squeeze. She smiled at him—a tired but genuine smile—and she was already fond of teasing him. Her favorite joke, at the moment, was that he was trying to starve her to death because he hadn't brought her any breakfast. She didn't realize, and he wasn't going to explain it to her in such straightforward terms, that she was on a regimented diet and transitioning her back to solid foods was going to take at least a little bit of time.

When he brought Sophia in, it was no different. He walked in first, per Sophia's request, to pave the way. Carol greeted him and he helped her get adjusted so that she was reclining in the bed and was more comfortable. She teased him about the food and he promised that he'd be back, before she really noticed that he was gone, with something that she could try.

And then he told her that she had a guest—a long anticipated guest—and he saw the tears welling up in her eyes before he ever told Sophia that she could come into the room.

For all her worry and concern outside, Sophia's anxiety melted away the moment she saw Carol. Her years melted away, too, as she darted toward Carol. She stopped short, though, of embracing her and looked at Daryl—and at the same moment, Carol looked at him too like she might burst into tears. He raised an eyebrow at Sophia and she seemed to understand the gesture as something that was now officially part of their own secret language.

"I don't want to hurt her," Sophia said.

"You won't," Daryl assured her. "And if you do? She'll let you know." He cleared his throat. "And—uh—remember, she can talk to you. She can hear you too."

Sophia's face turned red and she quickly turned it away from Daryl and back toward Carol. She sunk into her mother with a hug then, though Daryl noticed that she carefully arranged herself. She was afraid, he figured, of the "accessories" that her mother had gained since the accident—all manner of things that he intended to start weaning her off of as soon as he was able and she was strong enough to do without the assistance that she'd relied on to live this long.

Although Daryl was happy to see the reunion that was taking place, he found those kinds of things a little too emotional for him. He didn't like the feelings that they stirred up in the pit of his stomach—feelings that weren't really his to feel—so he didn't want to hang around too long and watch the women. He stood by the side, just long enough to make sure that everything was going to go smoothly, and actively tried not to listen to the blubbering words of either of them.

Carol remembered Sophia. She might not remember a lot of things about her, or the details of Sophia's life—he wasn't sure, yet, how far her amnesia might reach—but she remembered her daughter. Of course, he'd never been a mother but he wondered if that might have something to do with it. Maybe she just _couldn't_ forget the girl.

Daryl cleared his throat and Sophia looked at him, her face streaked with tears.

"I've got a couple things to do," he said. "And—I'm gonna get you something to try so Sophia can sit with you while you do," he said, pointing at Carol who was looking at him as well. "But—you just do what you gonna do. Sit down, get comfortable. You can do anything you want to do as long as you don't try to get up. None of that if I'm not in here."

Carol nodded.

"I understand," she said. And she did understand. She didn't realize she was as weak as she was—though he'd tried to explain to her that her muscles hadn't done too much since she'd been down and out—but she'd gotten a taste of it just trying to "help" him, that morning, to do some of the things that he was accustomed to doing on his own. Too much movement and she was as tired as if she'd run a half-marathon.

"Enjoy yourselves," Daryl offered to the both of them, seeing that Sophia was pulling the chair around to get more comfortable. "I'm easy to find if you need me."

"But you're coming back?" Carol asked.

Daryl laughed to himself and wondered if, along with her memory, some of her understanding of object permanency might be suffering a little too.

"Always come back," Daryl said. "You can count on that. Just—don't get too wild. Some people around here? They're trying to sleep."


	9. Chapter 9

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **Here's some of where the suspension of disbelief is going to have to come in for the sake of the story.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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"OK," Daryl said, "you're going to drink it."

"With a straw?" Carol asked.

"With a straw," Daryl confirmed. "That goes OK? You get a spoon with the Jello that's coming later."

"What flavor?" Carol asked.

"The Jello?" Daryl asked. "Because the broth is just chicken."

Carol nodded and looked at him like he was stupid.

"The Jello," she said.

"Red," Daryl responded. "Don't ask me any more than that, it's red. It's good. Your digestive tract can probably handle it."

"If I drink hot soup with a straw," Carol pointed out, "then it's going to burn my mouth."

Daryl laughed to himself. He'd spent so very little time with her and yet he already knew that the woman was equal parts a joy to be with and someone who made him grit his teeth a little more often than he was accustomed to doing it these days.

"Jokes on you," Daryl said. "Ain't hot. Just kinda warm. You don't want it, I'll take it back and adjust your calorie list again. Up to you."

Carol sighed.

"I want it," she said.

Daryl situated her with the mug of soup and put the straw in it to reinforce that he was expecting her to use it. The mug was one of the light plastic ones they had and the straw would keep her from lifting it so far every time she took a drink. The idea was, as it would be for a while, to conserve energy.

Sophia watched him in a way that almost unnerved him. Daryl had no doubts about how he did his job and he'd been shadowed by numerous people before that wanted his help with one thing or another. He wasn't bothered by the audience of someone else who was trying to learn—which Sophia was probably trying to learn to do at least a _few_ things for her mother—but there was something a little different in the way that Sophia was focusing on him. She was staring at him and studying every single move that he made.

Carol took the mug and carefully lifted it up. Watching Daryl, she adjusted the straw and sipped from it. He could see her smirk even in her eyes.

"Slow," Daryl said. "Don't drink it quick. Just—take it slow."

Carol returned the mug to the little tray table that he'd moved over her and licked her lips.

"It's not bad," she said. Daryl nodded his head at her. "Could be a little hotter," she said. "It takes away from the idea of soup when—it's barely more than room temperature and the room is chilly."

"Later," Daryl said. "Won't burn your mouth and it's easier to digest this way."

"Crackers?" Carol asked.

"Later," Daryl repeated, laughing to himself.

"What's the terrible thing that could happen to me?" Carol asked. "Just—so I'm prepared?"

Daryl swallowed and nodded his understanding that she'd be curious.

"Best case scenario is nothing happens," Daryl said. "Goes right through your system just like we want it to. No problems and I keep stepping you up to something more and more solid until we get you eating your daily calories and the tube comes out. Mid-line scenario? Your stomach cramps a little and you feel a little _gross_ but you keep it under control. Same idea applies."

"Worst case?" Carol asked.

Daryl raised his eyes at her.

"Don't worry about it if it happens, OK? I've helped you do everything and I'll help you throw up if that's where we end up," Daryl said. "But—slow. That way? The less that's in there when we know it's coming back, the quicker we get it under control."

Carol licked her lips and nodded. She picked up the mug and sipped a little of the liquid again before she returned it to the tray with a sigh.

"I feel fine," she said. "How do we know when— _if_ —I'm going to...you know?"

Daryl shrugged.

"That kind of depends on you," he said. "Depends on your digestive tract. This is your first time eating anything around me too that didn't come in a syringe. Just remember—everything in your body is running a little..."

Just to tease her, he stopped before he said the word and smiled at her, raising his eyebrows in her direction.

"Slow," she offered with a smile. Daryl nodded at her.

Carol looked at Sophia then and moved her hand to stroke her daughter's cheek. Sophia leaned into the affection like a cat. When she looked at Daryl, she looked at him like she was trying to memorize every muscle movement that he made while simultaneously reading his thoughts. When she looked at Carol, she almost looked star struck.

"Daryl's favorite word is slow," Carol told Sophia. "That's how he does everything. That's how—we take everything. Slow."

"You're gonna appreciate slow if your stomach isn't ready for this," Daryl said. "Now—I'm going to go do a couple things, but you just take your time with that. Sophia? You can find me if you need me? Let me know if she's not doing good with it at all. I want to know right away."

Sophia agreed with concern on her features and Daryl believed her. Carol might actually try to hold out on him. She seemed at least a little horrified of the fact that he'd been taking care of every single one of her bodily functions for the past few months. Sophia, though, wouldn't hold out at all. If Carol so much as looked uncomfortable, Daryl knew that the young woman would find him.

He left the room, just as he'd said he would. He slipped into another room and started up a small CD player with a song, the volume kept low. It was classical music, and not much to his taste, but he could hum along with most of the songs by now because it was the patient's favorite CD for relaxation. He recorded vitals and found nothing out of the ordinary, which was pleasant. He cleaned up some wilted flowers, changed water in another vase, and then he settled down into the chair beside the bed and picked up the newspaper that someone had brought that morning per his request.

He learned more news by reading there than he'd ever learned on his own. He opened up the paper and started his normal narration to the patient about the headlines he was looking at the ones he would choose to skip versus the ones that he might take the time to read out loud.

He'd only gotten about halfway through the first article that he chose before he heard a light knock at the doorframe and glanced up to see Sophia standing there.

"I'm so sorry to disturb you," Sophia said. Daryl was on his feet before she could finish the statement and started across the floor.

"Don't panic," he said. "As long as we keep her in the right position? She won't asphyxiate and that's really the biggest worry."

"No!" Sophia said, her voice coming out a little louder than the whispering tone she'd chosen to speak to him with before. She grabbed him by the shoulders to physically stop his forward progress. Immediately she looked surprised by her own actions. "No," she said, softening her tone. "It's not that. She's not sick. But—I do need to talk to you. And I think—I need to talk to you _now_. In private?"

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Daryl had left Rebecca, the main on-call nurse for the time being, watching Carol. Her only job was to make sure that Carol didn't get sick—and if she did? She was supposed to help her vomit correctly so that things didn't end up turning into a uselessly bad situation in Daryl's temporary absence. Then he'd taken Sophia out to the parking lot and called it one of his breaks—even if it was early for him. She refused to speak to him, though, until they were in the parking lot and he'd already lit his cigarette.

"Are you gonna tell me what's wrong?" Daryl asked. "Because—if there's nothing really wrong then I got to get back in there. I'm watching her as much as I can, but I got other patients too. I got a job."

Sophia looked a little offended and Daryl felt sorry for a moment. Maybe he was a little harsh. He could have told her, in a softer way, that he couldn't focus _all_ of his attention on her mother—that simply wasn't how his job worked.

"I thought you might want to hear this," Sophia said. "What she said to me, after you left?"

Daryl gnawed at his lip and nodded.

"Go ahead," he prompted. "Whatever you got to say."

"When you left the room? She was talking about how you have told her since this morning that she's got to take things slowly," Sophia said. Daryl nodded.

"She does," Daryl said. "She _feels_ like she can do anything, in her brain. And that's good. It's great that she's feeling that good. But her body's got to have a little time to catch up with that."

"I'm not arguing with that," Sophia said, displaying a little annoyance in her tone of voice. She crossed her arms tightly across her chest and Daryl waved his hand at her. She clearly wasn't accustomed to being interrupted.

"Go ahead," he said.

"She asked me if you were always so considerate and attentive," Sophia said. "She asked me if you were always about being so slow with things." The woman shrugged. "I told her that—yes—you were. You had been as long as I've known you."

Daryl nodded his head.

"Fair enough," he remarked.

"And then she smiled and said that's probably why you were so shy with her and probably why you hadn't kissed her yet," Sophia said. "Because you were taking things slow and you didn't want to just—dive right back into things."

Sophia raised her eyebrows at him almost in exact time with the sensation of a cannonball hitting his stomach. There was an awkward pause while both of them just stared at each other and Daryl felt he might not have been able to pull himself out of it if Sophia hadn't looked uncomfortably around them like she might expect someone else to be lurking in the parking lot just to listen to their conversation.

"I've never done..." Daryl started.

Sophia held her hand up and waved it at him.

"I don't think you have," she said quickly. "I don't. I wasn't accusing you of anything. I wasn't—I just _wasn't_. I just think that, somehow? Somewhere in—there? In her brain? She's gotten the idea that you and she are—were— _are_..."

Sophia appeared to be choking on her own words. At least they weren't forming an orderly line between her brain and her mouth and they weren't getting out in any kind of fashionable order.

"What else did she say?" Daryl asked. Sophia shrugged her shoulders.

"Not much," Sophia said. "Something about—how _romantic_ you were. How she remembered that—but she didn't remember _too much_ and she hoped that you were right and it _all_ came back. How she—hoped you _kissed_ her soon. That this—this whole thing—hadn't changed your mind." Sophia sighed and rocked on her feet. She squirmed around a little like she might produce a magical zipper with which she could just unzip herself and crawl out—free from all of it.

And Daryl hated to admit to her that, inside his own skin, he wasn't doing too much better.

"I never done nothing," he said. "I wouldn't do that. I haven't done anything that wasn't part of my job. Nothing I wouldn't have done with _any_ patient. With you in the room _watching_ me."

"Daryl, I don't think you did _anything,_ " Sophia said. "I'm not accusing you of _anything_. Nobody is. And..." She broke off and laughed to herself. "And if you _had_ done something? I couldn't—I don't even know if I could be pissed about it because it makes—it seems to make her so happy that? Daryl...I haven't seen her happy like this in a...in a long time."

Daryl sighed and scratched the back of his neck.

"I gotta go in there," he said. He shrugged at Sophia. "There's nothing I can do but just—set the record straight. Let her know that I didn't know her before this. She was just my patient. I've cared for her, but there hasn't ever been anything else. Just—she was my patient."

Sophia put her hand on his arm. She stared at him with the same intensity that she'd used inside. She shook her head at him.

"Please, don't," Sophia said.

He raised his eyebrows at her and widened his eyes in her direction.

"I have to!" Daryl said. "She thinks there's something going on there? Between us? She's gotta know that she—made it up."

"Daryl, it would _crush_ her," Sophia said. "And you talked to Dr. Pitts. You heard him say that we're trying not to get her too worked up over anything. Just let her go along at an even keel for a while. She's happy just thinking there was something there. That there is something there. If you go in there and tell her that she's—crazy? That she somehow made it all up? That would crush her. It would crush _anyone_."

Daryl didn't know whether to laugh, cry, or walk a lap around the building. He was praying, at that moment, that the magic zipper would appear.

"What the hell do you want me to do?" He asked, much more of his feelings coming out with the words than he'd ever intended.

"Can you let it ride?" Sophia asked. He looked at her. "I'm not saying that you have to _do_ anything. You just keep being you and just let her—imagine what she's going to imagine?"

"And then I lead her ass on?" Daryl asked. "And then what happens? Because one day she's gonna get her memory back. I believe that. And when she does? She realizes that—I just lead her ass on? Let her believe something that wasn't real? You did too? How do you think she's gonna feel then? And that ain't even to say that I'm not entirely sure it's even _legal_."

"Doctors pretend to marry their patients all the time," Sophia said. "I've read about it. And that's even more dramatic than this."

" _Terminally ill_ patients," Daryl said. "Sure. Let them die with some kind of happiness. But your mama? She ain't _dying_. Just the opposite. She's getting right on back to living."

"And she hasn't always _wanted_ to do _that_!" Sophia snapped at him, barking out the words. The awkward silence settled between them again for a moment. "I'm sorry," Sophia said quietly. "I'm just asking you— _please_ —just don't tell her right now. If her memory starts to come back? And she starts to ask questions? Then—we'll handle it then. But this is so new, and it's so scary, and so delicate and—please?" Daryl hesitated. She must have seen it, too, because she squeezed his arm again. "My mom's best friend was a lawyer— _is_ a lawyer," Sophia added. "If you're afraid? I'll have her draw up something to sign. Something to protect you. I'm just asking you to be yourself. And let her—have her memories, whatever ones she still has, whether they're real or not, for just a little while?"

"It's just a fantasy," Daryl said.

"Just pretend," Sophia said. "Fiction."

Daryl swallowed and nodded.

 _He could do this, couldn't he? After all, it was just fiction._


	10. Chapter 10

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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Daryl didn't think that Sophia had lied, and that was owing to the fact that it neither seemed in character for her nor did she have any reason to lie, but he'd seen no evidence throughout the rest of his day that Carol thought that they were intimately involved. It had been on his mind, since she mentioned it, but he hadn't seen any evidence of it even though he'd looked for it carefully. Sophia had spent most of the day with Carol and Daryl had gone back and forth to her room to check on things and help her out when she needed him. Still, not once had Carol said anything to him that he might have thought was inappropriate.

He was very much in need of a real night of sleep, and he was on his way out after having told them he was off the clock and changed clothes, when he stopped by her room for the last time to let her know that he was leaving and someone else would be taking over. Sophia had left not an hour before, and he braced himself, in the young woman's absence, for some sort of confirmation of what she'd suggested about Carol's beliefs.

"You need to sleep," Daryl said, entering the room as normally and lightly as he could. "And I do too."

"It's still early," Carol said, though she didn't really look like she was truly far from sleep. She would argue just for the sake of it.

"You had a big day," Daryl said. "Sophia coming. She coming back tomorrow?"

"If she can," Carol said. She sighed. "She's busy. She left in such a hurry that she's going to have to go back. Even if she can swing it to come here for a little while? She's got to get some things in order. I told her to go ahead and go if she needed to. There's nothing she can do for me that wouldn't get done with her in Washington."

Daryl's stomach twisted a little at Carol's tone of voice. The half-hearted and forced smile she gave him at the end didn't make him feel any better.

When Sophia left? Carol was on her own. Whether or not she was comfortable with that, Daryl knew that it could sometimes bring a somewhat melancholy feeling.

"We'll take care of whatever you need," Daryl said.

To busy his hands, and maybe to convince her he was telling the truth, Daryl straightened the blanket that she could have very easily straightened herself. She didn't need him to do all the little things for her that he'd become so accustomed to doing since she arrived. Carol moved her hand to put it over his and stop his fidgeting with the thin cover.

"You take care of me," Carol said.

"It's my job," Daryl said.

Carol hummed.

"And now you need to go to sleep," Carol said. "Because I kept you up all last night and made you sleep—where _did_ you sleep, Daryl?"

"I slept in the on-call room," Daryl said. He cleared his throat. "I told you that. Did you forget or...?"

"Or do I just not have any short term memory left?" Carol asked. She stared at Daryl. It was the same penetrating stare that her daughter had used on him throughout the day.

"That wasn't what I was gonna say," Daryl said.

"No," Carol responded. "But it was what you meant. And—it's OK. I'm still not sure how much memory I do have. Or—how much I've lost. If I don't remember that I don't remember it, where does that leave me?"

"It leaves you healing," Daryl said. "Just like it's supposed to do. And your memory? It's gonna come back. Maybe not all at once, but it'll come back. Especially when you get outta here? And you can go home and your life can—it can go back to normal? You'll remember it all then."

"I'm not sure I remember what my normal is," Carol said.

"You will," Daryl assured her.

And he did believe that her memory would come back. He had no medical grounds on which he could guarantee her it would—but he believed that it would.

"When does the going home happen?" Carol asked.

"When you can take care of yourself a little bit more," Daryl said. "When it's safe for you to go home. You'll have a nurse. And you can be sure that Sophia'll pay top dollar to hire the best one for you that she can find, but it'll be good for you to have some chance of taking care of yourself. When you're—free of all the contraptions? And when your physical therapist and your doctor say you can go? Then you've got a first class ticket outta here and you get to go back to real life."

Carol smiled at him. It was faint and soft, but this time it was sincere.

"How does it work?" Carol asked.

"How does what work?" Daryl asked. "You want some water?"

Carol shook her head at him and he stopped looking for things to do to keep himself busy—things to allow him to distract himself from engaging with her entirely.

"The getting out of here," Carol said. "What are the—the steps, or whatever? What are the hoops I have to jump through to earn my freedom?" She smiled a little wider. "To earn my normal life back?"

Daryl cleared his throat.

"For everyone it's different," Daryl said. "For you? I don't know. You're doing good with the food. A couple more days of that and—I'll be able to get you off the feeding tube. You already don't need the oxygen unless you get too overworked. I guess—next step is the getting you up. And when you're comfortable with that? It'll be the getting you to physical therapy."

"You told me I could get up today," Carol said. "Yet—here I sit."

"And here you're gonna stay," Daryl said. "It's late and you're tired. You can shake your head at me all you want but I can see it on you. Tomorrow? I'll get you in that chair over there. You can sit for a while. It suits you OK and you can sit a bit more. Get you a wheelchair and you can sit in that. Start letting you do things like..."

"Go to the bathroom on my own?" Carol asked.

Daryl laughed to himself. That was the part that seemed to mortify her the most. She needed help to go to the bathroom. He gnawed his lip and nodded at her.

"You're strong enough to do it? You can do it," Daryl said. "Just don't push it. It's all gonna come. It just don't happen all at once."

"Then what?" Carol asked. "After the sitting and the wheelchair and the maybe I can—regain some of my dignity—what happens next?"

Daryl shrugged his shoulders gently at her.

"Then we try the standing," Daryl said. "And once you can stand, assisted, for just a little bit? You go to therapy and it's out of my hands. My job is to take care of you, not to heal you."

"And then?" Carol asked.

Daryl snorted.

"You're like a three year old, you know that?" Daryl responded. "And then what? Why? What's that? When does this happen? You're about to drive me batty without some sleep."

Immediately he regretted it. He regretted the words. He regretted his tone. He regretted mocking her. He could blame it on sleep deprivation and the fact that he'd only had cafeteria food for about two days, but it was still inexcusable and he knew that. His mouth ran away with him sometimes. And though it rarely had occasion to do so at work, this was one of the times when it did.

Carol stared at him, though, with that same fixed stare and smirked with just the corners of her mouth barely turned up. If she was offended, she did well at hiding it. She didn't say anything to him about her feelings. She just stared at him and offered the smallest hint of a smile.

But Daryl was punishing himself enough for the both of them.

"Look," Daryl said softly, "I'm sorry. I really am. I didn't—mean that. I didn't mean it to come out the way it did. I just—didn't mean it."

"Do you think that's the worst thing that's ever been said to me?" Carol asked, her voice barely changing its intonation at all.

Daryl felt a shiver run up his spine and he fought the desire to shudder with it. Something in the way that she said the words struck him much more than he could have ever explained.

"I don't know," Daryl admitted. "But what I do know is you didn't need to hear that from me. Not at all and certainly not in that tone of voice. And—I'm sorry for it."

"I accept your apology," Carol said. "Not that it was really required. I _feel_ like a three year old. Maybe younger. I can barely feed myself. I need you to—to help me go to the bathroom. I'm not even sure if I can walk yet. I feel— _so much_ like a three year old. Maybe younger. I feel very— _helpless_. And _weak_."

Daryl swallowed and shook his head at her.

"Your body's weak," Daryl said, "but you aren't. And your body won't be so weak for long. And—I won't say I know how you're feeling, because I don't. You got every right to feel frustrated and—whatever else you feel."

"Angry," Carol said.

"That too," Daryl confirmed.

"Sorry for myself," Carol added, raising an eyebrow at him.

Daryl shook his head at her.

"Don't spend too long on that one," Daryl said. "Because—you're in a bad way right now, but you're better than you were. You're better than you could've been. When they helicoptered you out of there? They had all belief that you weren't gonna live. But you did. And when they moved you? They said they believed you were gonna wake up—but half of them didn't. I know. I could see it. But you're awake. So don't go feeling too sorry for yourself for too long because it won't do you any good. Maybe things aren't as good as they could be, but they sure aren't as bad. And you got a kid—she flew the red-eye from Washington just to get to you. Dropped everything she was doing. Dropped her whole life. Just to hold your hand and—and to kiss your face. You got love in your life that—some people can't even _imagine_. So—if you gotta feel sorry for yourself for a little bit? You go right on ahead and do it. But—by the time I get back here in the morning? And I'm ready to give you a bath to get you up and in that chair? You be done feeling sorry for yourself. You understand?"

Carol licked her lips and nodded at him. He was pretty sure that some of the sorry-for-herself was threatening to leak out of her eyes, so he moved and handed her the tissue box from her bedside table. She thanked him quietly for it as she pulled some of the tissues out.

"I have a lot of—wonderful blessings in my life," Carol said.

"You do," Daryl confirmed.

"And—I'm lucky that I'm alive," Carol said.

"You are," Daryl agreed.

"Even if—my life isn't what I want it to be right now, that doesn't mean it won't change, right?" Carol said, wiping at her face.

"Right," Daryl said.

"It's changed before," Carol said. "It can change again. I'm not dead so it can change again."

Daryl hummed.

"That's the idea," he said.

"At least I have people that care for me, right?" Carol continued. "I mean—some people, they don't have that."

"You're right," Daryl said. "It's something you got that some people sure don't have."

"And it was good to see Sophia," Carol said.

Daryl could hear her voice changing. He could hear her, even if she didn't know what she was doing, turning things around. He smiled to himself.

"She's a beautiful young woman," Daryl said. "Smart. And one hell of a ball-buster." Carol laughed quietly and nodded. "You should be proud of her," he added.

"I am," Carol said. "I am. And—even if I don't remember everything? I remember that I've _always_ been proud of Sophia."

"She loves you," Daryl said. "And she's—got plenty of reason for that. But—you gotta get some sleep. And I do too. Because if we're making some big steps to get you going forward? We're both gonna need our rest and our strength."

"I'll try not to act so much like a three year old tomorrow," Carol said, smirking at Daryl. He realized, now, that she would forever move that into her realm of teasing for him.

"I'll give you a pass," Daryl said. "But just for a day or two. Goodnight?"

"Goodnight," Carol confirmed.

She reached and caught Daryl's hand, just before he could turn to actually try to leave the room, and she squeezed his fingers. In return, he squeezed hers back and then he started to leave. She called him back just before he stepped out of the room.

"You need something?" Daryl asked, turning back to answer her call.

"Just to say thank you," Carol said.

"For calling you a three year old and mocking you?" Daryl asked, still horrified but playing into her earlier teasing.

"For caring enough to _put up_ with the three year old," Carol said, her voice sincere.

Daryl nodded and laughed to himself.

"It's my job," he said. "Goodnight."

He didn't wait to hear if she would respond with another wish for him to pass a good night. He walked quickly out of there and went directly into the parking lot without speaking to another soul. Before he got in his truck, as was customary, he stopped in the parking lot and lit a cigarette. He sucked down half of it like it offered him oxygen instead of the poisonous chemicals that it really gave him.

Caring for her, three year old tendencies or not, was his job. But he didn't need to look at his watch to know that he'd clocked out at least a half an hour earlier.


	11. Chapter 11

**AN: Here we go, another chapter.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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"If there's any emergency, you'll let me know about it right away. Other than that? I'll call Mama every evening about a half hour before you clock out. That should catch you getting her ready and she can talk a few minutes. I'll call you on your cell and check in, if that's OK, but I'm trusting you to handle everything the best way that you think it can be handled," Sophia said, digging through her purse for something as she stood by Daryl's truck and "kept him company" during his break. "I'll be back in a week and I can stay for a while except for quick trips that I'll have to make back and forth every now and again."

"A week is a while, Sophia, in her world," Daryl said.

"And it's the best I can do," Sophia said. "If I'm going to work from Georgia, there are things I'm going to have to take care of. There are things I have to get in order and people I have to put in place to handle things for me when I can't be there. Besides—I've got a lot of confidence in you, Daryl. I think that you can handle everything in my absence. You have until now."

"What about...you know?" Daryl asked. Sophia widened her eyes at him and then she shrugged in question. "She hasn't said anything about what she thinks she remembers and I'm waiting on that shoe to drop."

Sophia started shaking her head before she got around to answering him.

"That shoe isn't going to drop," Sophia said. "Not for a long time. Daryl—you don't have to be afraid of anything. What she thinks she remembers? She remembers it as being _wonderful_. That's the word that my mother—the woman I can never remember saying _anything_ was more than good or great in my whole life—used to describe _you_. I don't know exactly what your relationship was like in her mind, but I have to admit that I'm a little bit jealous."

Daryl felt his cheeks grow a little warm at the discussion, even if it was over a relationship that never existed in the first place.

"I just don't know how to handle it if she brings it up," Daryl said.

"For now?" Sophia responded. "We agreed you would sort of humor her. That's all. We'll clear it all up as her memory starts to come back and she's completely out of the woods."

Daryl shook his head at Sophia noncommittally. He wasn't negating what she was saying, that _was_ what they agree on, but rather he was simply letting her know that he still wasn't a hundred percent comfortable with the whole thing. He couldn't set Carol straight, though, even if he wanted to, unless she were to bring it up. And so far, she hadn't brought it up in _his_ presence.

Sophia sighed and leaned against the hood of Daryl's truck.

"My mother is not a man eater," Sophia said. "She never has been. She was married to my father and that relationship wasn't always in her best interest. After the divorce? She's had three boyfriends in her whole post-married life. _Three_ , Daryl. And all of those were short lived. The first was short lived because he really couldn't handle the whole you had a kid with another man thing. The second? That was mostly because he _was_ a kid. He just happened to be trapped in a man's body. The third? She split with him because she saw some tendencies there that reminded her of a road that she didn't want to go back down. She's not going to say anything to you because she thinks that you're overwhelmed with the whole situation—her accident, the fact that you're taking care of her, the whole nine yards. And it isn't hard to see where she's getting that idea from. Daryl, you need to relax."

"She's gonna say something eventually," Daryl said.

"Maybe," Sophia ceded. "But right now? She doesn't want to do anything that might put in jeopardy what she remembers. Or what she thinks she remembers, however you want to phrase it. She wants to give you the time and the space that you need to get back to being what you were."

"To get back to being where the hell I never been," Daryl pointed out.

"Back to where she thinks you were," Sophia said. If eye-rolling had a tone of voice, Daryl had just heard it come out of the woman's mouth. "The point is that she isn't going to push you. She doesn't want to push you."

"That's great," he said. "So she's thinking we're in a relationship and I can't handle what's going on, but it was so wonderful before?"

"She's thinking that you're nervous about it," Sophia said. "And she's thinking that—it's a lot. It's a lot for her, so why wouldn't it be a lot for you?"

"And when she's telling you this," Daryl said, "what are you doing? What are you saying?"

"I'm not saying anything," Sophia said. "I'm listening to my mother talk about something that makes her happy when she talks about it."

"But it isn't real," Daryl pointed out.

Sophia shrugged.

"Some of the things that make us the happiest in our lives aren't real," Sophia said.

"But this isn't believing in Santa Clause or the Easter Bunny or whatever else," Daryl said. "It's not about some kind of fantasy. She believes it _is_ real—at least from what you're telling me."

Sophia tipped her head to the side and stared at Daryl with the look of boredom on her face that she'd gotten more than once over the few days that she'd spent there with her mother.

"When she gets her memory back," Sophia said, "will it come back all at once or a little along?"

"I have no idea," Daryl admitted. "I'm gonna guess a little along."

"And when do you think it'll come back? Off the record?" Sophia asked.

"Can't say that either," Daryl said. "Could be five minutes from now or five years. I don't know."

"But a good guess?" Sophia pressed.

"When she goes home," Daryl said. "When she—gets back in her space and sees her things. When—she's feeling like her and not like a patient. That's my guess."

"And when she goes home," Sophia said, "then she'll see that there aren't any pictures of you and her together. She'll see that—there aren't any vacation pictures. There aren't any keepsakes from your relationship. It'll be easier then to tell her that _Santa Clause_ isn't real because she can see that there isn't a _North Pole_."

Daryl swallowed and nodded.

"So let it ride," he said. "Just a little while longer." Sophia nodded and Daryl mirrored her movement. "I just don't want to see her get hurt," Daryl admitted.

An insincere smile crossed Sophia's lips. Maybe there was actually some sadness to it.

"That makes two of us," Sophia said. "And that's why—I know I can trust you. To handle this—however it needs to be handled, and in the best way possible. I trust you."

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"Don't—move until I know what's happening!" Carol said suddenly. She went totally rigid and Daryl had to bite his lip to keep from laughing at her.

Carol was a good sport about most everything, but she was something of a nervous Nelly. Daryl was pretty sure that she'd have let him do absolutely anything to her that he wanted to do—but she was going to need it detailed out to her in advance. She needed to prepare for it, no matter what it was. She liked to prepare for everything, he'd learned, from the smallest needle stick to shampooing her hair.

"Relax," Daryl urged her. "Just relax. I'm just gonna pick you up and I'm gonna move you to the wheelchair. Jake's gonna move with us and help me make sure I get everything. Then? I'll put you in the chair and we'll go for a walk. No different than when we went to the other chair."

Carol was already partially in Daryl's arms and he felt her relax a little.

"Where are we going?" Carol asked.

"Wherever you want to go," Daryl said. "Getting you outta the room. That's all. A little trip around the floor. Can you relax? So I don't accidentally hurt you?" Carol sucked in a breath, but when she let it out, she did make her muscles relax. Daryl tested her by lifting her the slightest bit off the bed and then he nodded in Jake's direction. "I'm gonna lift her and you help me get everything?"

"I'm on it," Jake confirmed.

The longest part of moving Carol to the wheelchair was getting her to relax into the change of environment. As soon as she was settled in the chair, Jake told them to have a good trip and he left the room. Daryl arranged the pillows for Carol, gave her a blanket to retain some of her dignity, and made sure that they were ready to be fully mobile.

"You good?" Daryl asked. Carol hummed. She was still working on becoming fully relaxed. "You sure?" Daryl asked. "You're comfortable?"

"Can I have—some water before we go?" Carol asked. Daryl laughed and went for the cup that he brought to her. Carol drank some of it and wiggled around in the chair before she handed him the cup back. "I have a lot of _stuff_ , Daryl," Carol said.

Daryl hummed at her. He thought he might take her around to visit one or two of his other patients. He'd show her, then, what having a lot of stuff really looked like. She was down to some of the bare necessities and he would have her functioning without those before too long.

"You're doing great," Daryl said. "Better than I ever would've thought. But—I want to get you used to touring around in style because they're going to want to take you for tests soon. And when they do? Wouldn't you rather spend your time at the hospital resting in a wheelchair than having them push you around in a rolling bed?"

"I'd rather not go at all," Carol said. "I don't like the whole—moving around thing. And I hate the machines. I can't breathe in there. I felt like I was going to die before they finished and it didn't help that they just kept telling me that if I moved I'd have to spend longer in there."

Daryl got everything ready for them to move, satisfied himself that they were as ready to go as they'd ever be, and started to push the chair. Carol didn't protest, so he assumed that she was simply along for the ride until she started giving him instructions.

"Claustrophobic?" Daryl asked. "Is that why they bother you?"

"I guess," Carol said. "I just got scared."

"Overwhelmed, too," Daryl said. "But there's nothing to be scared of. All the torture we put you through? It's just to help you. Nobody wants to hurt you."

"You can tell me that," Carol said, "but—it doesn't mean that my brain understands it."

Daryl laughed.

"I guess that's true for most anything anybody tells us," Daryl said.

He pushed her out into the main hallway and she looked from side to side like she was on a sightseeing tour instead of like she was being pushed through Spring Valley. Rachel called out Daryl's name from behind the main nurse's station and Daryl waved at her.

"Is this Carol?" Rachel asked, coming from behind the station. Daryl slowed their forward progress to a stop.

"This is Carol," Daryl said. "And Carol, this is Rachel. One of our many _talented_ nurses here. I believe her favorite area to work in is the active rehab area."

"Active rehab?" Carol asked.

"That's what we call the area that you _should've_ been moved to," Rachel said, some teasing in her voice as she gave Daryl a scolding look. She smiled at Carol. "But Daryl wouldn't let you go, so you're not in my section."

"Just means all the patients are in active states of recovery," Daryl said, clarifying everything for Carol. He'd explained it before, but her short term memory wasn't exactly perfect at the moment. "Whereas—some of my patients don't make any progress for a long time, so people think they might not be making any at all, those in the active area make continual progress. Like you're doing."

"You can always join us over there," Rachel offered. "If you decide you want to move. Daryl could take you to tour it. Just down the hall over there and around the corner. We've got a nice entertainment room."

"That you can use even if you don't stay over there," Daryl said. He nodded at Rachel, trying to bid her farewell without having to say that he'd talked to her for about as long as he could tolerate. She seemed to understand the nod—since all of them knew that he wasn't one for conversation—and she quickly told Daryl and Carol to enjoy their excursion. Daryl pushed Carol forward, doubling his steps a little to put some distance between them, and Carol kept quiet for a few moments. Daryl finally cleared his throat. "I'll take you to see the entertainment room," Daryl said. "Books and movies—cards and—I think some games. And—she was right. If you want to move, I can talk to Sophia about it. You could move if you wanted to."

"I don't want to move," Carol said quietly. Daryl stopped walking and looked around to get a glimpse of her face since her tone of voice made him worried that the whole encounter might have been too much for her. She wasn't crying, but she did look a little distraught.

"Something hurting?" Daryl asked, going for the safest question first. She shook her head. "You need something?" She shook her head again. "You—wanna talk about it?"

"I'd rather not move," Carol said.

Daryl laughed to himself.

"Then you don't move," he said. "Problem solved. When you leave your room? Your next stop is gonna be your room at home. Just like you left it and just like you like it." He shook his head. "Rachel didn't mean anything. She's just trying to give me a hard time. That's all. She really didn't mean nothing about you. She was just—trying to give me a hard time."

Carol sucked in a breath and let it out as she nodded her understanding to Daryl.

"Maybe I didn't like that, either," Carol said.

Daryl didn't know how to respond to it. He wasn't sure what her statement meant—and he wasn't sure what he should say. So he did the only thing that he could think to do on the spur of the moment. He pretended that he hadn't heard it at all.

"What about the cafeteria?" Daryl asked, returning to the position where he could push Carol. "It smells good and I ain't had lunch yet. I'm due for my lunch break. I know you haven't had anything since breakfast. Wanna go? Have a real sit-down meal? I'll let you try just about anything you want to pick out."

"With you?" Carol asked.

Daryl hummed.

"Well I wasn't going to leave you there alone," he said, pleased that he'd at least distracted her from the incident with Rachel.

"I'd like that," Carol said.

"Me too," Daryl echoed, turning the chair to head for the cafeteria.


	12. Chapter 12

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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"You _did_ lie," Carol insisted, picking up the conversation where they'd left it when Daryl had left her at the table to bring back his own tray.

"I didn't lie," Daryl said. "You cheated."

"You said I could pick out whatever I wanted," Carol said.

"And you could—as long as it was part of a well-balanced diet. I don't think they'd look at me too good here if I was letting you sit down with six different desserts and then saying you didn't need your formula today," Daryl said.

Carol hummed at him and laughed to herself. A simple trip to the center cafeteria and it made her light up like it was the most exciting thing she'd ever done in her life. She'd begged a half-dozen desserts for lunch and Daryl had to pull the responsibility card and tell her that one—and only one—was her maximum allowance for the meal. He was already planning, though, to bring her another with her dinner—though he wasn't going to tell her that.

If she was mad, though, she certainly didn't seem it. Daryl took a seat next to her and started to arrange everything for her so that she could reach each part of her meal. Carol put her hand over his, stopping him as he unrolled her silverware from the napkin.

"I think I can handle this part," Carol said sincerely, patting his hand.

"I don't want you to overdo it," Daryl said.

"If the silverware is the end of me—then maybe I shouldn't be here at all," Carol said.

Daryl nodded at her and pulled his hand free of hers. He waved at her to go ahead and she took her own silverware to unwrap it while he got his food ready.

"You're gonna like the chicken," he said. "And the rice. It's always good. The beans I don't sign my name to. If you come on Taco days, though—that's my favorite."

"Can I have tacos?" Carol asked.

"If you keep this down," Daryl said. "And you don't get sick? You can have tacos. You can have whatever you want as long as you can keep it down. We're worried about you getting enough of the right kinds of calories, but you're not really on any kind of dietary restrictions."

Carol tasted her chicken and made a face that said she was satisfied with it, even if it wasn't the best she'd ever tasted. Daryl wondered, for a moment, if maybe he'd spent too long eating cafeteria food. For him it had become almost a delicacy.

"So I'm healthy?" Carol asked. Daryl hummed at her.

"All things in consideration," Daryl said. "You're healthy."

"I'm healthy but my—brain is broken and my body can't handle the effort it takes to get myself to the toilet," Carol said, some of the glum sound seeping back into her voice that she'd pushed out since she'd been perusing cakes and puddings.

"OK—your brain is _not_ broken," Daryl said. "You were in a car accident and—your brain suffered more than the rest of you. It's healing and you're not being very nice to it right now." Carol looked at him and frowned while she picked at her food with her fork. "And your body is just weak. That comes from what it's been through. But you're getting stronger by the day. You couldn't hold your head up to start and now—you're feeding yourself at the table and you've got enough leftover energy to complain about the fact that things aren't moving as quickly as you'd like."

"I do that a lot?" Carol asked.

Daryl laughed to himself and nodded.

"Yeah," he said. "You do that a lot. Point is, your brain's going to heal and your body's going to keep getting stronger. You might not be running marathons right away, but when you go home? You'll get to the car in a wheelchair because it's policy, not because you gotta have it." He cleared his throat and tapped the table. "But you know how you get stronger? Eatin' food like you're supposed to, not complaining about resting when you gotta, and—not giving me a hard time about the stuff you have to do."

Carol raised her eyebrows at him.

"Not giving you a hard time is on my recovery plan?" She asked.

Daryl couldn't help but smile at her expression and the somewhat devilish smirk that she was wearing. He nodded his head.

"Right at the top," he said.

"You don't like being given a hard time?" Carol asked.

Daryl shrugged his shoulders.

The truth was that he was used to being given a hard time. For his brother, giving Daryl hell was like a sport and Merle had, as far as Daryl could tell, been training for the asshole Olympics his whole life. The hard time that Carol gave him, though, was different. If it was complaining about some thing or another, he didn't like it—but that was mostly owing the fact that he believed wholeheartedly in the fact that a positive outlook would get her farther than a negative one. If it was just the teasing, like she was doing now, it didn't bother him—even if it did make his stomach feel odd enough that he was questioning whether or not he should really let her attempt to digest the food that they were eating.

"I don't mind it," he said. "But—I mean what I said about doing what you gotta do and keeping your eye on the prize. It won't be a picnic every day, but it'll be worth it when you get outta here."

Carol nodded her head gently and looked at her tray.

"Did you mind it when the nurse out there gave you a hard time?" Carol asked. "Or—did you like it?"

"I don't pay people no attention," Daryl said. "Not as a general rule."

"Everyone here seems to know you," Carol said. "The lady at the counter?"

Daryl laughed to himself.

"I eat here every day," Daryl said. "She works here about as much. Her name's Maria and she's Italian when she wants to be and Mexican when she'd rather be that—but that's about all I know about her. What about you?"

"What about me?" Carol asked. "Nobody knows me. Not even me, apparently."

Daryl shook his head at her, but he had to admit that it was at least a witty response.

"What do you remember?" He asked, worrying already about whether or not he was getting into dangerous waters.

Carol didn't answer him immediately. She ate some of her food. Whether it was because she was hungry or because she was buying herself time, Daryl didn't care. She needed to eat. Finally she looked at him, though, and put down her fork.

"I have a daughter," Carol said. "Sophia. And—I don't remember where I used to work or what I used to do but I remember wearing dresses to work and I remember that I liked my job. I was married to Sophia's father, but I divorced him. And—as odd as it seems? I can remember that clearly. All of that. What my marriage was like—why I divorced him. I can even remember what he looked like. I remember my parents, but they're not alive anymore. I thought so, but I checked with Sophia and she told me that it was true. They passed. Both of them. And I like to cook. Or I'm pretty sure that I liked to cook, but maybe I just liked to watch it on television."

Daryl laughed to himself.

"So you do remember some stuff," he said.

Carol shrugged.

"I feel like my brain is _full_ and _empty_ at the same time," Carol said. "I feel like I remember everything. I feel like I can see the answer to any question that I ask myself, but it's like—just at the corner of my eye. And when I turn my head to look it? You know, not literally, but...it's just gone. I feel like I can still see it running away. And when I catch something? I just remember them telling me that I can't remember anything—and I'm afraid to trust it. I don't trust myself."

Daryl swallowed.

His stomach felt every bit as uncomfortable as it had before and he was starting to really question the food. He thought he might drop by and let Maria know that he wasn't sure that the chicken was up to its normal quality—maybe it didn't get cooked through or it got thawed too early. Carol hadn't complained about it yet, but he was already worried about what it might do to her when her stomach tried to break it down.

Or maybe he shouldn't trust his stomach any more than Carol trusted her memory.

"It's not that anybody wants to say you can't remember anything," Daryl said. "It's just that you can't remember _everything_. So it—doesn't mean that you're wrong in what you remember. It just means there's holes in what you remember like—like Swiss cheese or something like that. You're gonna fill in them holes as you go along. But what you remember? For some reason you remember it. You just might not remember it _exactly_ as it was."

"It's not a whole memory," Carol said. Daryl nodded.

"Exactly," he said. "And—I've never had any kind of traumatic brain injury, but I can tell you that my memory isn't whole either. So I think you're doing alright considering your condition."

"So I should trust what I remember?" Carol asked. "As the truth? Even if it's not—the whole truth?"

Daryl nodded.

"Yeah," he said. "You should. Try to remember things. It's good for you to try to remember them. You might remember more tomorrow than you remember today. Might even be able to see it all getting better when you catch more and more out the corner of your eye. Just remember that it's not the whole truth. You'll get all that later."

"Sophia wouldn't tell me much," Carol said. "Like she was—afraid of _influencing_ me. Like she might sway my opinion. What can you tell me?"

"About you?" Daryl asked.

Carol nodded.

"Something—I don't know. Something simple. Anything. Something to help me—remember me," Carol said.

Daryl sighed and thought back through what little he did know about the woman from what Sophia had told him over the time he'd been taking care of her. Anything he told her could, as Sophia knew, sway her to have some false memories, but those would be temporary—at least in theory. Eventually her brain would sort the truth out as everything came back.

"You've lived in Georgia your whole life," Daryl said. "Your name is Carol Ann McAlister, but you prefer to be called Carol and nobody's called you Carol Ann since you were in high school. You used to teach, but you're retired from it now. English. You like to read, but you like cheesy books that aren't the type you taught in classes. You like to garden but you like wildflowers best so you buy the packets of seeds for them and you put them out everywhere even if you don't know if any of them ever grow. And you like—seventies music and you _might_ mind my singing, but I've never heard you complain about it."

Daryl looked at Carol and she was smiling at him, her head resting on her hand. She was listening to him like he was telling her the most interesting story ever instead of reciting something that was, essentially, a facts sheet that he'd memorized about her life.

She was just staring at him and smiling—and he had to bite the inside of his mouth to stop himself from adding to the list of things that he knew about her that her eyes were beautiful and her smile was too.

Daryl cleared his throat and tapped the table again.

"Gotta eat," Daryl said. "I'd love to—sit here all day but I gotta make rounds. And I can't make rounds until you're back in bed."

"Can't I come with you?" Carol asked. "I'd like to see what you do when you're taking care of everyone else."

"Some other day," Daryl said. "Let's try to keep the excitement of this one to a minimum."

She sucked in a breath and opened her mouth like she intended to argue, her brows furrowing even as she prepared for it, and Daryl held up a hand to her. He couldn't entirely keep himself from smiling, though.

"Don't argue with me," Daryl said. "And don't complain. It's at the top of your care plan."

Carol sighed, but she did laugh a little. She picked her fork up and gathered up several of the beans. Then she watched him, like a defiant child, while she put them in her mouth and chewed them with the hint of a pout still playing at her features. Her face contorted and she covered her mouth with her hand. Daryl quickly handed her his napkin, the closest that he could reach, and she responded by spitting the chewed food into it.

"What's wrong?" Daryl asked. "You OK?"

"I think I just remembered that I don't like lima beans," Carol responded.


	13. Chapter 13

**AN: Here we go, another chapter.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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Daryl was two doors down and he could hear the noise of Jake arguing with Carol. Or, maybe, it was Carol that was arguing with Jake. To be honest, Daryl couldn't quite sort out the one from the other at this distance. He wrapped up what he was doing as quickly as possible and walked quickly to Carol's room to see if he couldn't solve the problem before it escalated any more than it already had.

It looked like a standoff. Jake had been reduced to simply standing at the foot of the bed, hands on his hips like he was trying to figure out how to approach her, and Carol was leaning in her bed and holding onto the remote like she intended to bludgeon him with it if he should dare to come closer.

"I can't leave you alone for ten minutes," Daryl commented, disarming both of them momentarily as they turned to notice his arrival to the scene. "What's going on?"

"She won't cooperate," Jake said. Daryl bit the inside of his cheek not to laugh at the slight theatrical nature of Jake's gesture toward Carol. He was exasperated, there was no doubt about that.

"It's a simple job, man," Daryl said. "All you gotta do is take the tube out. Two minutes—four with good prep."

"She won't let me touch her!" Jake exclaimed.

It was pretty clear to Daryl, at this moment, that even if Carol would allow Jake to touch her long enough to remove the feeding tube, he didn't want the young man to do it. Whether or not any of them liked to admit their own shortcomings as humans and, especially, as caregivers, things didn't always work out in the favor of the patient if they'd reached their limit with patience. He'd be unnecessarily rough now just because he was worked up.

"Forget it," Daryl said. "Go—clean some bedpans or change some I.V. bags or something. I got this."

Jake visibly relaxed now that he was being excused from the job that he didn't want to do. He started toward Daryl, taking his leave of the room with no more word to Carol than if she'd been unable to communicate with him, and he stopped just before he reached the doorway.

"You're sure?" Jake asked.

"I'm sure," Daryl confirmed.

"You're not going to—to turn me in or anything, are you?" Jake asked.

Daryl laughed to himself.

"We've all had difficult patients before," Daryl said. "Get outta here. I'll find you later."

Daryl crossed the room to Carol's bed. She was still clutching her remote to the point that her knuckles were white and she glared at Daryl as he came closer.

"I'm not difficult," Carol growled at him. Daryl had to bite the inside of his cheek again to keep his composure. Carol was slowly getting a reputation for being difficult—at least for anyone who might come into her room besides Daryl.

"You sure ain't easy," Daryl responded. "If you weren't difficult? He'd've been outta here by now and you'd be without that feeding tube. At any rate, you're about to be without it now." Daryl reached to touch Carol's gown, meaning to move it out of the way, and she flinched instinctively. He raised his eyebrows at her. "Gonna club me to death with that?" He asked, glancing at her weapon of choice.

"No," she responded.

"Gonna tell me why Jake couldn't do something so simple?" Daryl asked.

Carol sighed deeply, clearly trying to relax herself a little.

"How simple is it?" Carol asked. "Are you going to—give me anything?"

"Anything what?" Daryl asked.

"Anything to—numb it? Or whatever?" Carol asked.

Daryl shook his head.

"Not gonna hurt," he said. "Don't need to numb it."

"See, that's what he said," Carol responded. "But that doesn't make sense to me. There's a plastic tube in my stomach and you're going to—what? Pull it out? And you're telling me that it's just—just not going to hurt?"

Daryl nodded.

"That's what I'm telling you," Daryl said. "Can I do this? Because—you're ready to be free of this thing and they prefer you don't have all these extra accessories when you start physical therapy. Get it down to nothing you don't absolutely need. And you don't need this for a single thing. You're eating fine and you're digesting fine. Put on a little weight even."

"That's not a nice thing to say to a woman," Carol pointed out.

Daryl laughed.

"Might not be out there," he said. "But in here? It's like saying—like saying your face is like the moon or something."

"Your face is like the moon?" Carol asked, laughing at Daryl's choice of words. He didn't care that she was laughing at him because she was clearly relaxing. She was sinking back into her pillow and she'd let him move her gown. He was getting closer to his goal and she barely seemed to be noticing it at all. She could be a handful for him, but she was much more willing to bend to his will than she was for anyone else. She trusted him.

"I'm not a poet," Daryl said.

"Surely you can do better than that," Carol said.

"Not on the fly, I can't," Daryl said. He readied the bandage that he'd place over the hole that would be temporarily left behind and got his own pair of gloves. It was only when she saw him putting them on that Carol clearly tensed again and he saw the rapid rise and fall of her chest that she was trying to hide from him with a less than panicked facial expression. He was learning her, though, now that he'd had almost two weeks to spend with her awake, and he knew more about her reactions than she thought he did. "Breathe," he said. He rested his hands on her, but made no move to do anything. "You want me to talk you through it?" Carol nodded, her voice seeming lost for a second. Daryl cleared his throat. She liked things explained to her. He couldn't really blame her. "Simple. You see this here part?" She nodded. "You got another one inside of you that's flexible. It's the only reason this tube doesn't just come out on its own. So—what I gotta do? Is just tug it enough that it folds up on itself and slides right on out. The tube'll come out after it. Same as pulling out an I.V. and that doesn't hurt, does it?"

Carol let out a breath she'd been attempting to hold and shook her head.

"But there's nothing holding an I.V. in," Carol pointed out. Daryl nodded.

"You right," he agreed. "Still—won't hurt. You'll feel a little pressure. That's it."

Carol crinkled her nose at him.

"I have learned that the word pressure is another word for it's going to hurt," Carol said. "Bad. I distinctly remember that word being tossed around when I had Sophia."

Daryl laughed to himself.

"You can forget you had breakfast this morning, but _that_ you can remember?" He asked.

"Some things you don't forget," Carol said.

"Not that kind of pressure," Daryl said. "If you'll let me do it, it'll be over with. And then you don't have to worry about it anymore and we don't have to even talk about it." He'd readied himself to the point that he could have the tube out in a few seconds. Still, he knew that much of the rest of Carol's recovery depended on him keeping her trust, so he didn't go with his instinct to simply pull it out instead of continuing to talk to her. He rested his hand on the tube and Carol tensed. "Relax as much as you can, OK?" She let go of the new breath she'd pulled in. "You can keep breathing, just relax," Daryl added. "Just a little pressure. I promise. Done before you even know it."

On his final words, he went with his first instinct. He pulled the tube and, though she tensed against the pressure he'd promised her, he removed the tube without any great show of discomfort from Carol. He cleaned the area quickly and put the gauze covering over the hole.

"That's it?" Carol asked, panting a little. She'd stirred herself up more with her emotions than she'd been affected by anything having to do with the quick procedure.

"That's it," Daryl said, taping down the gauze pad and starting his clean up. "That's what all the worry was about. All the bickering and complaining."

"You don't have to—sew it up or anything?" Carol asked, gingerly touching at the gauze.

"It'll close quickly and on its own," Daryl said. "But I'll keep a check, just in case."

Carol sunk back like she was as exhausted by the whole thing as a body could be.

"It wasn't that bad," she confirmed.

"Knew it wouldn't be," Daryl said. "You just needed to complain about it."

"I don't complain," Carol said. "He comes in here and says you sent him to pull this tube out of me. What am I supposed to do?"

Daryl laughed to himself.

"Jake's working on his presentation skills," Daryl said. "I'm glad you're on my side now. Because—up next? We're getting rid of this catheter while we're plucking things off of you and then? You're one more step closer to freedom."

Carol groaned.

"Gonna hurt less than that," Daryl offered, stepping away to toss his gloves and wash his hands once more for good measure before he got a fresh pair.

"One step closer to freedom means one step closer to getting out of here?" Carol asked, not bothered by the short amount of distance that was now between them.

The question, all by itself, made Daryl's stomach knot up.

For two weeks Carol had been in recovery. For two weeks she'd been making steady progress in one area or another. It was slow going, there was no doubt about that, but she was pushing through like a champ. Sophia was back in Atlanta, though she only popped in every now and again for a visit and quoted long-distance work as the reason for her common absence, and Daryl spent a good bit of his "free" time with Carol. When he'd first taken her on, as a conscious patient, instead of sending her to the active recovery ward, he'd been worried that he'd tire of her—that the need to speak so often would simply get old for him. Now he was so used to her that he almost dreaded going back to his customary silence without the chance to pop in on her, from time to time, as a break from his other patients. He loved working with them, holding tight to the hope that he had for them, but she was a breath of fresh air. She was a reminder that the hope could play out. She was a reminder that, outside of his patients, there was life in the world.

The thought of her leaving twisted up Daryl's guts to a point that he was sure they were likely more uncomfortable than hers had been when he'd done the dreaded procedure and removed the tube that had once been responsible for her nourishment.

"You'll be out of here before you know it," Daryl confirmed, coming back to Carol's bedside.

Carol frowned at him.

"That look on your face doesn't make me feel too sure," Carol said. "You don't look very happy. Something you're not telling me?"

Daryl shook his head.

"Not about you getting out of here," he said, hoping that she didn't press him to find out any more information. "Maybe—I'm just going to miss you. You ever thought about that?"

Her expression was far more serious than it usually was when she looked at him. Immediately, though, she forced a half-smile across her lips.

"You'll miss me?" She asked. "Even though I make your job so much harder with all my complaining?" Daryl shook his head gently. It was the only response he could give her to what he knew to be teasing. The smile she'd forced, fell. "You'll still see me," Carol said. "Just—not as much. Not all day, every day."

Daryl didn't respond.

Carol apparently mentioned her belief that they were, somehow, together to Sophia from time to time, but she'd never brought it up to Daryl. She'd never mentioned it to him and, beyond the constant teasing that took place between them, she'd never really let on that she believed that there was anything there. Daryl wasn't really prepared to tell her that she was wrong, if she did bring it up, but so far she hadn't given him the opportunity to even think about how he might handle it.

 _But if Carol was leaving, sooner or later they'd have to handle it._

Because he couldn't, in good faith, say if he'd ever see her again. That would be up to _her_. His control of any situation involving Carol ended when she crossed the threshold of the automatic doors out front.

Daryl was pretty sure, though, that today wasn't the day that he wanted to handle the situation. He still wasn't prepared for it. He wasn't sure, in all honesty, if he ever would be.

They still had a little time, though.

Daryl forced a hint of a smile for Carol's benefit –or at least he forced the softening of his features since he wasn't sure his expression ever really reached the realm of true smile— and she immediately responded to it with some visible relief of her own.

"Just not as much," Daryl said. Carol made something of a soft sighing noise in response and nodded her head at him. "Don't be hardheaded with me this time. Let's get the catheter out. I want to call 'em tomorrow and say you're ready to try a little therapy."

Carol groaned and made a fake sobbing sound—entirely too over the top to be true—and then she smiled at him, this time sincerely.

"Aye aye, boss," she teased. "But—I get ice cream for all this."

"It's not even lunch yet," Daryl said. He smiled to himself at the expression that she gave him as a response. "Fine," he said. "But don't go complaining to me no more when I point out that you're putting on weight."

"I thought you said it was a good thing," Carol said.

Daryl hummed. It was a good thing. It was one of the many things that he had to keep a fairly constant check on. And it was one of the signs that Carol was doing well and that there was progress in her physical state, even if her memory hadn't bothered to restore itself very much as of yet.

"It is," he said. "It is. It's all good."


	14. Chapter 14

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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Rhonda Hensley was exceptional with patients. Daryl wasn't too familiar with her work when it came to his own patients, since most of them never actually needed physical therapy, but he'd seen her work miracles with others who came into Spring Valley. She was patient. She had a bedside manner that seemed to make it possible for her to connect with _anyone_. A three word conversation with her could make you feel like you'd known her forever and you were the closest of friends. She took patients that were one hundred percent against doing anything that even remotely smelled like exercise and managed to get them _excited_ about going to therapy.

Around Spring Valley, and Daryl assumed it was true at the hospital as well since she worked there sometimes, Rhonda Hensley was something of a celebrity.

Standing at almost six foot tall, large framed for a woman, with an athletic build and something resembling a crew cut, she was also a little intimidating. Daryl didn't know if her appearance came _from_ her dedication to her job or if it was one of the reasons that she'd _become_ so good at the position. She'd was also at least thirty years the senior to any of the twenty-something year olds that came in to try their hand at the job, but age didn't slow her down any. If anything, she was better at what she did now than she had been years before.

For dealing with patients, she was the perfect mix of sugarplum fairy and drill sergeant, and she seemed to be able to read which one of her two personas each patient would respond to with more enthusiasm.

Daryl wasn't worried at all when she came to take Carol for her first session. Carol could be a bit of a handful—and for that she'd earned a reputation that was making it harder and harder for Daryl to find willing assistants to help him out with her—but Rhonda could handle it. She knew, somehow, how to have the perfect balance of gentle contact and unrelenting demand. There was absolutely no reason to be concerned that she wouldn't know how to handle Carol.

But, just to be sure, Daryl worked through his morning routine as quickly as he could, took his break, and darted outside to smoke the fastest cigarette his lungs had ever known before. Then he slipped down to watch what was going on before his break ended.

The therapy room was private, but they often had family members that wanted to join their loved ones for therapy. For that, Rhonda always left one of the side doors to the room open when she was working with a patient. That way, she reasoned, the loved one could wait there. From their spot, they weren't visible and wouldn't distract the patient in any way, but they could also feel somewhat involved and informed about the condition of their family member. Daryl knew which door was left ajar because sometimes he liked to join other nurses there to witness some particularly impressive feat of a patient that was set to leave Spring Valley soon.

Carol's session was at least halfway over when Daryl arrived—they might even be close to finishing. She'd have to start slow and work her way up. That was the story of her life these days. By the time he got there, she was sitting on one of the mats, leaned back against the wall, with Rhonda sitting beside her, and Rhonda was letting her have a water break and get her breathing back under control. But Carol looked like she was enjoying the woman's company.

Daryl reasoned that he wouldn't stay long. There wasn't going to be much to see and he only wanted to know that Carol was getting along fine—and that she wasn't worried about his whereabouts—but he did stand for a moment at the door and watch them. They were talking and their conversation echoed in the therapy room and drifted just outside the door. He had to put some effort into listening to it, and that was something he never would have normally done, but he couldn't help it once some of the conversation caught his attention.

"So you mean _intercourse_?" Rhonda asked, some humor to her tone.

"Well—yes, I guess," Carol responded. "Just—nothing _crazy_ or out of the ordinary. Just _basic_. _Anything_."

The snatch of the conversation made Daryl's pulse pick up a beat, but Rhonda seemed to think it was amusing. She laughed quietly in response, still not entirely immune to the school-age giggles about such topics when they were presented a certain way.

"It depends," Rhonda said. "Physically there's nothing stopping you now. You're in good health. It just depends on how much you want to put into it. Therapy is going to help you build muscle. Right now your muscles are still pretty weak. It just means you don't have much stamina."

"Which is why I got winded and shaky before I made it to the end of the bars?" Carol asked.

Rhonda was amused at that too. Daryl watched them through the crack in the door. They were sitting, smiling at each other, like they were best friends in high school.

"That's exactly why you got winded and shaky," Rhonda said. "It's not your lungs or your heart. Every test they've done comes back great for you. It's the fact that you need to build stamina. And you know how you build that?"

"Getting back up and getting back on the bars?" Carol responded. Rhonda hummed.

"And going halfway if that's as far as you can go," Rhonda said, "but doing it over and over again until you can go three-fourths of the way. And eventually, all the way."

Carol laughed then.

"It's the going _all the way_ that I'm asking about," Carol said. " _When_ can I go all the way?"

"I'm sensing there's some pressure behind this," Rhonda said. "Is there someone pressing you?"

"No," Carol said. "On the contrary, actually. Maybe it's just me pushing myself. I just—want to reconnect with someone."

"It's something to work toward," Rhonda said.

"I'm sure you've heard better things that people were working toward," Carol said.

"Any goal is a goal I can work with," Rhonda replied. "For a little while it might not be _exactly_ like you remember, but we'll get you there."

Carol laughed.

"The good news is, I don't really remember it at all," Carol teased. "So—I don't think I can be too disappointed."

"Back to the bars?" Rhonda offered as a response.

Daryl didn't stay to see if they went back to work. He didn't stay to hear any more of the conversation at all. Instead, he slipped out the way that he'd come, regretting more than a little that he'd come to check on Carol at all, and let them know that he was going to need a few more minutes but he had nobody that needed any immediate attention. Then he slipped outside again and pulled another cigarette from the pack that he kept stuck in his truck's visor.

His hands were shaking slightly. He could pretend that it was thanks to caffeine or nicotine or even the beer that he drank the night before, but the truth was that they hadn't been shaking until now.

Carol had either picked up a boyfriend that he didn't know about, or she was thinking about their so-called relationship. She never said anything to him about it, but now he could imagine that she was just quietly biding her time. Maybe she thought that he needed as much time as she did in this situation—and he didn't know how much time he _might_ need if a relationship between them actually ever existed.

What he did know was that he was in a very difficult position and in a pretty sticky situation.

On second thought, Daryl went back to his truck and grabbed his cigarettes. He put the whole pack in his pocket for the time being, not sure if he might turn himself into the little engine that could while he puffed around the parking lot, and he started walking. It was the best way to help him start to organize his thoughts.

At the rate she was going, Carol would be leaving Spring Valley, memory not quite intact, in more or less two weeks. She'd go home to recover and would likely have a private nurse because Sophia wasn't going to be able to dedicate the time and attention to her mother that Carol might require while getting settled back into her life—especially not with the sometimes dodgy quality of her short term memory. More than likely she'd return once or twice a week to Spring Valley for physical therapy, but that would only last until Rhonda cleared her to do all her exercise at home, and then she would check in on a monthly or bi-annual basis until she was cleared entirely of needing assistance with her physical health.

She believed, whether or not she voiced it to him, that she and Daryl were in a relationship. And, clearly, she believed that they were sexually involved. Daryl could now reason that Carol, when she heard him talk about her return home, was also thinking that it would be a return to their relationship as she thought she remembered it. Maybe, even, she had some idea about how she would _celebrate_ such a personal victory as making it back to _normal_.

If she found out now—at this very moment even—that she was mistaken about the relationship, it was going to cause problems. It could mean that she didn't trust Daryl or wouldn't work with him. Since she was reluctant to work with anyone else, that could mean that she delayed her own recovery.

Daryl had no way of knowing what the full extent of the fall-out from such a discovery could be.

If he didn't tell her, though, and she made it through everything to return home, it wouldn't take her long to discover the whole thing was something that she made up and no one corrected her about. The fall-out, whatever it might be, would then happen there, in her home.

Sophia reasoned, and Daryl had to agree on some level, that the second option was the best one from a medical point of view. At least, if Carol made it home and then found things out, she'd be more advanced in her recovery. She'd be at home and she could handle things there. She'd have a new nurse and wouldn't need to depend on Daryl for anything.

Her heart might be broken, but the rest of her would heal just as well as it ever could.

It was the best choice for Carol—for her recovery—that's what they'd decided.

But it didn't feel like the best choice to Daryl.

Because, as he walked, his chest grew tighter and heavier with every step. He could blame it on the cigarettes and the exercise—an odd combination to anyone—but he was pretty sure that it had nothing to do with his outside stimuli.

If Carol made it home without knowing the truth, and she found out there by simply having the rug snatched out from under her, she would be _angry_ more than anything. She would feel betrayed. And it would be her right to feel betrayed because, no matter their intentions, that's exactly what Sophia and Daryl were doing to her. She would forgive Sophia because that's what kind of mother she was, but she would probably never forgive Daryl.

She would go on, and she would get better, but she'd do it entirely without Daryl. And, she'd do it with any memory she might have of him tainted by the anger and the betrayal.

She'd never forgive him because she trusted him, and he knew that she trusted him, and she would know that he'd used that trust and he'd been dishonest with her—even if he'd done it for all the right reasons.

Daryl's _job_ was to worry about Carol's recovery, and only her recovery, but he wasn't sure that he could do that anymore. The heaviness in his chest was getting worse and it was starting to worry him. It was either a heart attack or an indication that something else was going on, but either way he was growing concerned about his shortness of breath and the fact that he felt entirely unable to get himself under control.

He needed to figure things out. He needed to get himself taken care of, first and foremost, and then he needed to talk to Sophia.

He needed to go inside, right this very moment, and take the rest of the day as a sick day. He had to tell them that, though he was terribly sorry to do this to them, it was an emergency and he couldn't finish his day. It wasn't a lie, either, because he was feeling quite ill at the moment. He was feeling entirely unlike himself.

He was feeling, in more ways than one, that he couldn't do his job.

And that was something that Daryl hadn't felt before.


	15. Chapter 15

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here. There's a cameo appearance here while Daryl is working on some of his feelings.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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"Breathe again."

Daryl followed the instructions he was given and slowly drew in a breath and released it. They were coming easier now and his chest no longer felt as constricted as it had. He could feel his pulse, too, slowing down as the time wore on.

As soon as he'd left Spring Valley, he'd headed immediately over the hospital. He knew he wasn't actually having a heart attack, but he was almost certain that _something_ was wrong. He wanted some reassurance, maybe, that he wasn't misdiagnosing himself into ignoring the almost certain signs of his early and impending death.

Daryl had known Dr. Alice Walker for as long as he'd worked at Spring Valley. Most of his patients came to him with some sort of brain injury, but not all of them had otherwise good physical health. Dr. Walker—Alice to Daryl—visited some of the patients regularly to save them the stress of having to make the trip to the hospital since transporting them, sometimes, was more difficult on their bodies than simply letting them stay where they were. Tuesdays and Thursdays. Those were her days to stop by and see whoever needed to be seen.

Daryl had taken her to lunch a couple of times, right there in the Spring Valley cafeteria. In turn, she'd invited him to a couple of holiday weekend barbecues at her house and he'd gone. He knew her partner. He knew her dog. He called her "friend" as much as he used the term for anyone.

And he knew that she would see him without charging him and without judging him.

At the hospital he'd skipped right past anyone that might want to talk to him about officially checking in and he'd gone to the floor that he knew she'd be working on. Following the instructions in the text that she sent to him, a response to his request that she squeeze in a couple of moments to see him, he'd found her without much effort. She'd taken him to one of the empty rooms and now he was sitting, shirt off, while she examined him and gave him a list of commands to follow that tested his obedience as much as they tested the capabilities and shortcomings of his body.

Alice took the earpieces out of her ears and hung her stethoscope around her neck. She shook her head at Daryl.

"Your heart sounds fine," she said. "Your heart rate is a little high, and your blood pressure is certainly high, but..." She broke off and didn't finish what she was going to say. She must have decided it didn't matter anyway.

"I'm telling you that I couldn't breathe, Alice," Daryl said. "I couldn't get air in. I couldn't get it out. My chest felt like—like it was just closing up."

She sucked on her teeth, clearly thinking about it. Then she pulled one of the chairs in the room around to sit and face him.

"It could be your lungs," Alice said. "They sound clear. I wouldn't say there's any obvious reason to be worried, but tests could show something different if you're concerned."

"But you're not concerned?" Daryl asked. Alice shook her head. "Damn fine doctor," Daryl said, half-way teasing her and half-way meaning what he said. "Your patient comes in and tells you that they can't breathe. Tells you that they were almost sure they were having a heart attack and you tell them that you're not worried about it?"

"You're not having a heart attack now, are you?" Alice asked. Daryl shook his head. "No," she said. "You're not. If you weren't sure, I can tell you that you're not. And are you having any pain? No. Can you breathe? Yes. So, no, I'm _not_ concerned. If I were you, I'd probably keep a check on that blood pressure to see if there's something you might need to take for it, but you're in good health. You're so close to fifty that you're scaring it. It's normal to have a little flutter or something every now and again. We all do."

"This wasn't a flutter," Daryl said, feeling himself calming again. "Not even close to that. I'm telling you—I felt like I was gonna die right there where I stood."

Alice laughed to herself and nodded her head.

"So you've been saying," she said. "Humor me. What exactly were you _doing_ when you felt like you were going to die? Walk me through it. Tell me every detail. What were you doing and what were you feeling?"

Daryl snorted at her.

"Isn't that more Mel's job?" Daryl asked. "To ask about my feelings?"

Alice's partner was a delightful little birdlike woman named Melodye. She was a psychiatrist and less than a half-hour into any conversation she'd have you talking about your feelings like it was something that everybody did over dinner. She'd have you realizing that you had feelings that you didn't even know you had about events that you didn't realize had even been significant. But Alice, for the most part, was more focused on your physical well-being.

"Humor me," Alice said, rolling her eyes at Daryl's comment.

"I was walking in the parking lot," Daryl said. "Went outside for fresh air and a break. Wanted to clear my head. So I was walking in the parking lot and smoking a couple of cigarettes."

Alice screwed her lips up at him.

"Do I have to give you the speech?" She asked. "Or can I count on you to give it to yourself on the drive home?"

"I know," Daryl said. "Stop smoking. But it ain't gonna happen."

"Eventually it will," Alice said. "That could be your problem. And unless you like the feeling of suffocating to death—which you don't or you wouldn't have contacted me in panic—I'd suggest that you start thinking about it sooner rather than later."

"Can you just let me skip the lecture?" Daryl growled.

"Fine," Alice said with a sigh. "So you were walking and smoking cigarettes. That's—that's probably going to give you shortness of breath. It's going to make it harder to breathe. I mean—that's not rocket science. I don't even need to use my degree to figure that out."

"It wasn't even like that," Daryl said. "I walk that parking lot several times a day smoking cigarettes and I don't feel like that. Never. And don't tell me it's because my birthday's coming up either."

Alice shrugged her shoulders.

"Then you tell me what it is," Alice said. Daryl's stomach churned. He could tell her about that feeling, but right now he wasn't sure that it mattered. He wasn't sure that this was a problem that Alice could do anything about. Maybe his silence, though, said something more to her than his words did. "What were you thinking about?" Alice asked.

"What?" Daryl asked.

"You said you were clearing your head," Alice said. "What were you thinking about? Something going on? Something with a patient?"

"A patient," Daryl said quickly.

Alice shrugged her shoulders.

"There you go," she said. "Sometimes—when I lose a patient? Or when I know I'm losing them? When I know they're too far beyond my control? I can hold it together for them because that's what I have to do. But when I just—get home or get in my car? I lose it. It all comes apart. And there's no shame in that, Daryl. It's practically part of the job description."

Daryl shook his head at her.

"Didn't lose a patient," he said. "Don't even have one that's teetering on the edge right now. I know that feeling too, Alice. If I lost one today, it wouldn't be the first I ever lost."

"I know that," Alice said. "But—if it's not that, is there something else going on? Something that you're not that used to dealing with?" Daryl stared at her and she laughed to herself again. "You came here for me to help you and I moved things around just to help you. I can't help you if you won't let me, Daryl."

Daryl sucked in a breath—a breath that came much easier than the ones before it had—and let it out like Alice was still listening to the inner workings of his body. The tightening came back a little, though not with the same vengeance that it had in the parking lot.

"There's something else," Daryl admitted.

"Something you're going to let me in on?" Alice asked.

"I was talking, weren't I?" Daryl responded. She held her hands up to him in mock surrender. "It's a woman. Don't make that face."

"I wasn't making any face," Alice said, still wearing the smirk that she would insist she wasn't making.

"She—likes me," Daryl said.

"Likes you, likes you, or likes you like I like you?" Alice asked.

"I hope to hell we aren't braiding each other's damn hair after this shit," Daryl offered as an answer.

"So do you like her?" Alice asked.

That was a loaded question. It struck Daryl, somewhat like a bowling ball to the gut, that nobody had actually asked him that before. He hadn't even asked himself that question before.

But he was nodding his head before his brain even fully contemplated the significance of the response he was giving.

"So what's the big deal?" Alice asked.

"It's just not that simple," Daryl said.

"She married?" Alice asked. Daryl shook his head. "Seeing anybody?" He shook his head again. He didn't know how to tell Alice that Carol thought she was seeing him. "Lesbian?" Alice asked. Daryl laughed to himself.

"Jesus, Alice, not every damn woman plays for your team. You know that, right?" Daryl asked.

"Most of them don't," Alice said. "Or at least they don't admit coming to try-outs. But—I'm just trying to figure out how this is so complicated. It sounds pretty textbook. You say she likes you. You like her enough that she gives you heart palpitations. Whether or not you know it, just thinking about her has got you breathing a little heavier right now and I'd wager your pulse has picked up at least a little. So what's the problem?"

"The problem is she thinks I'm something I ain't," Daryl said. "Problem is she thinks—well she thinks it. And I never set her straight. I'm _lying_ to her."

"You told her a lie? About yourself?" Alice asked.

"I didn't _tell_ her a lie," Daryl said. "She came up with it on her own. I just never set her straight. I'm letting her think the lie ain't a lie. And—she's gonna find out the truth sooner or later."

Alice hummed and shifted around in her chair. She made herself more comfortable and reclined almost like she was at home and watching television instead of having a conversation with Daryl about his life-threatening distress.

"I can see how that's a problem," Alice said. "You don't think she's going to like you anymore when she knows the truth?" Daryl shook his head. "Is it that big of a lie? What does she think?"

"Does it matter?" Daryl asked. "Somebody let you go on for a while believing a pretty decent lie and they don't tell you the truth—is it gonna matter to you what the lie's about?"

"Depends on how much I like them," Alice said. "I mean—I'd be pissed. She's going to be pissed off, Daryl. But—if she really likes you? And you really like her? I think she'd get over it."

"And if she doesn't?" Daryl said.

"You won't know until you talk to her," Alice said. "And—I think, if I had to diagnose this some way? I'd say that the cause of your pseudo-heart attack could have been a good, old-fashioned panic attack. Sometimes anxiety can masquerade as a heart attack."

"So that's your diagnosis?" Daryl asked. "Anxiety?"

The corners of Alice's lips curled up slightly.

"My official diagnosis, I think, I might keep to myself," Alice said. "For now? We'll say it's anxiety." She stood up and smoothed out the coat she was wearing. She readjusted her stethoscope and straightened her name tag. "What I would prescribe is—well, it's a couple of things. I'd prescribe that you—talk to her. Tell her what you've been keeping from her. But, more than that? Tell her how you feel about the fact that you _have_ been keeping it from her. Then? I'd prescribe you to take a couple days off work. Everybody needs a vacation every now and again, Daryl. Even superheroes. I'd prescribe that you—stop smoking or at least cut down a bit. And...I'd prescribe that you come over this weekend for some killer steaks that'll knock your socks off. You can tell me then if you've had any more episodes."

"Take a vacation, stop smoking, eat with you—and tell her what's going on," Daryl said, somewhat amused. "Tell her how I feel about the fact that I've been lying to her."

Alice hummed.

"And since I know you don't listen to half of what I say, that last part? I think that's the most important," Alice said.

Daryl sucked in a breath again. He paid attention the way it felt entering and leaving his chest. He worked his way back into the shirt that Alice had no difficulty talking him out of earlier. He could scoff at her all he wanted, but he knew that she was right. He was going to have to talk to Carol. There just wasn't any way around it.

"You make it sound so damn simple," Daryl said. "It just ain't that easy, Al."

"Never is," Alice assured him.


	16. Chapter 16

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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"And if she can't handle it?" Sophia asked.

"I don't think you're giving your mother enough credit," Daryl responded. "I don't. She come out of this not because she had to. She come out because she wanted to. If we could've forced her out, she wouldn't have stayed in so long."

Daryl sat across the table from the young woman in what he assumed was Carol's house. He hadn't seen much of it. He'd only come so far inside as to sit at the dining room table and now he was drinking the coffee that Sophia offered him and holding something like a conference with her.

Lips pursed and eyes set on the table, Daryl wasn't sure if Sophia was worried about her mother or mad at him for suggesting that he was going to end the charade. He'd called her and told her he planned to do it. He'd called her and said that, if she thought she should be present, then she should make arrangements to get to Spring Valley by a little after five. Sophia had countered by begging him to come to the house and talk to her first.

He would talk to her, but he was still talking to Carol. His mind was made up.

"My mother hasn't always been _well_ , Daryl," Sophia said.

"Yeah, I know," Daryl responded. "I've been taking care of her for a while now. I know things about her she wishes I didn't because I've taken care of all of it."

"I don't mean with the accident," Sophia responded. "Daryl—my father was...he was _awful_ to my mother. And even when he wasn't here anymore? He was still _here_. He was in her head. He was _always_ in her head. She was—scared of relationships. She tried them, I guess, a couple of times, but they never had a fighting chance. I think she always thought they were going to turn out like him. She was always going to end up trapped in another situation like the one he kept her trapped in. I think something about every man she met just reminded her of my father."

"Look, Sophia...I'm sorry about your old man, but I'm not him," Daryl said. "I don't know him. Wouldn't know him if I was to sit next to him."

"You're not him," Sophia agreed. "You're absolutely nothing like him. And I think that might be the point."

Daryl sucked in a breath and held it. He let it out slowly, the same way he'd been doing since he'd left the parking lot earlier and had been worried he might be dying. Sophia responded by doing something very similar.

"Daryl, she wasn't emotionally OK for a long time," Sophia said. "She wasn't happy. She went about every day and she did everything that she was supposed to do, but she wasn't happy. Not really. Not _completely_. She kept busy. That's what I remember most about my mother in the last few years before she got in that wreck. She kept busy. Now? When I talk to her she's laughing. She's telling me jokes—and you're the one who told them to her. She's telling me funny little things you said or what you did. She's not busy and she doesn't seem to care."

Daryl's chest ached a little, though not with the extreme pressure that it had before.

"It's make believe, Sophia," Daryl said. "Whatever she thinks is going on? It's make believe. I ain't—done nothing that would even get me fired besides probably letting her go on thinking that there's something there that never happened."

"It's there," Sophia said. "Whether or not you knew it was happening? Whether or not you meant for it to happen? It's there. She already _cares_ about you. And when you tell her this whole thing is imaginary and she made it up? Daryl—what she's going to hear is that she cares about _you_ , but you don't care about _her_. And—I'm afraid that's just going to remind her that she's cared before when nobody else seemed to be able to care about her."

Daryl swallowed and shook his head.

"That ain't what I'm saying," he said.

"Then what are you saying?" Sophia asked. "Because if you don't come up with a better plan than the one that you've got? That's what she's going to hear. You're flattered she cares about you, but you don't care about her—not at all. Not any more than they pay you to care."

Daryl's stomach rolled and he tried to blame it on the coffee. He'd told Sophia roughly what he intended to say to Carol. It wasn't poetry by any stretch of the imagination. He felt like he was about ten feet in over his head and it wasn't a pleasant place to be. He didn't know how to handle the whole thing without fucking something up entirely.

On the one hand, he ran the chance of losing his job. Carol had the ammunition, if she wanted to use it, to get him fired for improper conduct. This could be twisted in such a way that Spring Valley could have more than enough grounds to fire him. On the other hand, and employment aside, Daryl had the chance of doing something that messed with Carol's recovery—and he'd never want that. And, on an entirely different hand, he ran the risk of hurting Carol.

And hurting Carol—or the mere thought of it—hurt _him._

"That ain't what I want to say," Daryl said. "It ain't. Not what I want to say at all. But—I'm in a damn tight spot, Sophia. I gotta tell her I didn't know her until she was at Spring Valley. I gotta tell her that—she was my patient before anything else. Then what's she gonna think? That I manipulated her into believing what she believes—that I done something I shouldn'ta done."

"How, Daryl?" Sophia asked. "Do you think she's going to believe you _brainwashed_ her? Now I think it's you that needs to give my mother a little more credit."

Daryl shook his head again and dragged his hand across his face. He scrubbed at his eyes in irritation.

"What do you think I should do, then?" He asked. "Because it's clear you got an answer that I just don't know about. What do you think I should say? And don't say that I shouldn't say anything because that just ain't a damn option no more."

"You know what I think," Sophia said, letting her words trail off.

Daryl didn't mean to slam his hand down on the table with the force that he did, but it happened. It surprised him, too, as much as it did the woman sitting across from him.

"Your plan ain't no kinda plan," Daryl said. "I'm sorry—but it ain't no better'n mine. Maybe I don't got the right words and maybe I can't make it sound like it's a pretty thing, but your plan ain't no better. You wait until she's better and bring her back here. That's your plan. Bring her back here thinking that—she's coming home to her life. And all the while she's thinking that I'm part of that life. She's thinking that—I don't even know what she's thinking. That I'ma be here. That I'ma be taking care of her here. That we—that I'm part of that. And then you just tell her that it ain't so? That I'm really just outta here and I weren't nothing more than a caretaker that you hired? That it was all just make believe and now it's done? You're so damn worried about her and how she's gonna feel—telling me that you know how what I was gonna say to her is gonna make her feel—then you tell me what the hell she's gonna feel when she hears that. You tell me that! How's she gonna feel when you tell her that I'm out and she didn't even know that I weren't never _in_?"

"At least she'd be home," Sophia said. "At least we'd know where she is in her recovery. And don't raise your voice at me! You don't have any right!"

Daryl stared at the young woman. He checked his temper.

"You're right," Daryl said. "You're right that I shouldn't yell at you. And I'm sorry I did. But you and me? We made this bed together. And I might not have a right to yell at you, but you don't got a right to screw with your mama's feelings just because you think you know what's good for her. I know about as good as anybody where she is in her recovery. I've been monitoring every single thing about it just about every day since I laid eyes on her. She can handle knowing the truth—maybe a whole lot better than she can handle finding out we dragged this out even longer than we already have."

Daryl picked up the coffee cup and drank down most of the dark liquid. He lamented that there wasn't something stronger to drink at the moment. He didn't normally drink too much, but he would welcome something to help him steady his nerves since he hadn't felt like he was in control of them for most of the day.

"I don't want to mess with her emotions," Sophia said. "I have never wanted _anything_ more than I wanted her to be happy. She wanted to see me as—she wanted me to be _independent_. She wanted me to be so that I never had to rely on any man, ever, to take care of me. I've worked to make sure that happened. I've worked to make sure that she was always taken care of. That she never had to worry. The last thing I want is to screw with her."

Daryl felt a little sorry for what he'd said when he heard the slight crack of Sophia's voice. True to her personality, though, she made her face hide the emotion that her voice had almost given away.

"You said she cares about me?" Daryl asked. Sophia nodded. "You're sure about that?"

"If she didn't," Sophia said, "then I wouldn't care what you told her or how you told her."

Daryl sucked his teeth.

"Fair enough," he said. "But—don't you think that if she's gonna really care for somebody, she ought to get the chance to make that decision on her own? She ought to get to really feel it instead of just—thinking it's so because her imagination made her think it? She just woke up thinking that this was something—but it was something she didn't never have a word of say-so in. Don't you think she oughta at least have a little say-so in it if she's gonna feel something for someone? She's got a right to at least know the truth. She's got a right to at least—to at least make a decision."

"A decision about what, Daryl?" Sophia asked, her voice softer than it was before.

"About—me, I guess," Daryl said. He shook his head again. "I don't know. I ran out of answers five miles before I even got here."

"Do you care about her?" Sophia asked.

Daryl laughed to himself and nodded his head.

"That's about the only answer I ever even had," he mused. "As bad of an answer as it might be..."

"How could it be a bad answer?" Sophia asked.

"Because—it don't say much for me if you consider that half the time I've known her she was in a coma," Daryl said. "Don't say much for me if I say that—all that I know about her besides her health wouldn't fill a good sized piece of paper. But I care. And I care way on more than what the hell they're paying me for."

Sophia stood up. She pushed her chair under the table and Daryl watched her. She stood by the chair and stared at him.

"Well?" She asked.

"What?" Daryl responded.

"Are you done with the coffee or you want it to go?" Sophia asked. Daryl looked at the mug. It was practically empty. He drained the last swallow and offered the mug to her. She shook her head at him. "Just leave it on the table," she said. "It won't hurt anything. Let's go if we're going. Get up there before dinner. She's probably wondering where you are."

"What are you talking about?" Daryl asked.

"We're going to Spring Valley," Sophia said. "You and me."

"You're going with me?" Daryl asked.

"I want her to know you weren't in this alone," Sophia said.

"I still don't know what to tell her," Daryl said.

"You already said you were going to tell her the truth," Sophia said. "So that's what you tell her. The truth. The whole truth."

"You said that wasn't good enough," Daryl replied. "Don't you remember? You said—that would just upset her. Make her think that she cared about me and I didn't care about her no more than you were paying me to care."

"That was before you _found_ the whole truth," Sophia said. "We can work out some of the details in the car. The most important part is that now you know that you don't want to leave out what's most important."

"Which is?" Daryl asked.

"That she might've made it up," Sophia said. "And how she feels might be based on nothing but imagination. But you've been there the whole time and you feel the same way about her that she feels about you. You care too—and you don't even have a brain injury to blame it on."

"Her imagination and my damn over-active imagination sure ain't no kinda relationship, Sophia," Daryl said.

"No," Sophia agreed. "But it's a start. And—I'm willing to give Mama enough credit to believe that she'll see that too."


	17. Chapter 17

**AN: Hello all, another chapter here. This one was difficult to write and so I put it off for a while. It happens that way sometimes. Pieces of it have been sitting in a folder for a while. I'm not a hundred percent happy with it, but it's what I can do.**

 **I also wanted to let you know that there are, by my plans, about five more chapters left (give or take) in this story.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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Daryl brushed right by the questions about how he was feeling, what had happened, and if he was doing any better without any response to anyone. With Sophia three steps behind him, and running on what little bit of courage he'd scraped together in the parking lot, he went directly to Carol's room.

Anyone replacing him at the moment would be spending nothing but the absolutely necessary amount of time with the patients. Leaving them quite suddenly in the lurch and between shifts, whoever covered him was doing it as something extra. They were doing it in addition to what they were already expected to be doing. It was no surprise, then, that Carol was alone in her room. It was no surprise that, volume turned down on the television because there was nothing on or she'd grown tired of watching it, she was sitting in her bed and she was reading one of the numerous paperbacks that Daryl kept stacked on her windowsill from the days when he used to read to her.

When he came in the door, Sophia just behind him, Carol stopped her reading and looked at him. Over her face, there came a flood of quickly changing expressions. First she appeared surprised to see someone standing there as she was pulled out of her reading stupor. Then she looked pleased to see them as a quick smile fluttered across her lips, but the smile was rapidly replaced with an expression of concern.

"They told me you weren't feeling well," Carol said. "Are you alright, Daryl?"

"No," Daryl admitted. He held up a hand and closed the distance between the door and the bed. "I'm not sick, but I'm not OK neither. We need to talk." He resisted the urge to add "before I lose my nerve" to his words.

Carol's look of concern only grew and she looked around Daryl and toward Sophia. The young woman, though, was there for support more than anything. She wasn't saying anything. That was the deal. She wasn't going to interject unless it seemed like it was necessary.

"Is something wrong?" Carol asked.

Daryl nodded at her.

"Pretty wrong," Daryl admitted. "I ain't been honest with you."

"Is there something _wrong_ with me?" Carol asked, shifting around in her bed.

"Something wrong with me," Daryl said. He could see it on her face that Carol's mind immediately took her somewhere where he was going to admit that he had a couple of months to live and they'd conveniently forgotten to remind her of that. He shook his head at her. "Not—health-wise. I'm healthy enough. You are too. Something wrong with what I let you go on thinking. What I shoulda cleared up back when you first said something about it."

"But he didn't," Sophia said quickly. "Because I asked him not to. I thought it would be best if he didn't say anything and—he went along with what I asked."

"What's going on?" Carol asked.

Daryl licked his lips and tried to ignore his dry mouth and pounding heart. He knew he wasn't dying, now, and he knew he had to simply look past the symptoms that might make him believe otherwise.

"I know you—think that you and me are a thing," Daryl said. "You thought we were before all this. You thought—we are now."

"A _thing_?" Carol asked.

Daryl wasn't sure if she was questioning his choice of words or if she had no idea what he was talking about.

"A couple," Daryl said. "In a relationship. Together." Carol's mouth fell open slightly. "We're not," Daryl said, shaking his head. "We never have been. Truth is—you were my patient. You come to me while you were in the coma and I was supposed to take care of you. So that's—that's what I did."

"But we..." Carol started. She glanced around Daryl once more to look toward Sophia. Sophia didn't say anything, though.

"We didn't do anything," Daryl said. "We weren't anything. I didn't even know you before you came in here. I didn't know you until I read your chart. Sophia? She told me everything I know about you. Everything. I asked her about you when you first got here so that I could be sure I was doing nice things for you. But—we weren't together."

Carol's face blushed red and Daryl thought she might cry. She held it together, though, if that's what she was fighting against. She shook her head.

"I don't understand," Carol said. "We—travelled together. We—I remember that! I remember us travelling together. You taught me how to...you taught me to water ski."

"That had to be some trick," Daryl pointed out. "I don't even know how to water ski."

"I don't understand," Carol insisted. "I _remember_ this. I remember _you_."

Daryl sighed.

"Sophia, can you?" Daryl asked. He didn't have to ask Sophia to leave the room. She was able to anticipate that was what he wanted and she obliged him. Daryl pulled one of the chairs up beside Carol's bed and he sat down in it. "Carol—what I think you remember is...well, I think you'll find everything you think you remember in those books. I been thinking about it and—I read those books to you. All of them. Nearly every day. You were at the point of waking up. Just before it. Maybe your brain picked up some of it. Turned it around and decided it was me that was _in_ the books and not just me that was _reading_ them to you."

Daryl was prepared for some kind of reaction from Carol, but admittedly he'd thought she'd be angry. He'd thought she might have some kind of fit that pushed her blood pressure through the roof. He thought she might yell or scream or tell him exactly what she thought of him.

He wasn't prepared for her to look crushed. Her expression made his chest hurt as bad as it had at any point during the day.

Carol stared straight ahead and shook her head at nothing that Daryl could see.

"We didn't travel together?" She asked.

"No farther than the cafeteria," Daryl said.

Carol sucked in a breath.

"No romantic dinners?" She asked.

"Not any more romantic than eating in the cafeteria," Daryl said. "Or—the times I would just sit in here with you while you ate."

"We never...we weren't together, so we never... _you know_...did anything _else_?" Carol asked.

Daryl had a pretty good feeling that he knew quite well what she was talking about. Overhearing her conversation at therapy had given a pretty good insight into some of what she might be wondering about. He cleared his throat.

"Not at all," Daryl said. "Not—not even close. But—I didn't leave those parts out of the books when I was reading. Just in case, you know, those were the parts you liked."

Carol nodded her head at the same nothing she'd shaken her head at moments before.

"Have you ever—have _we_ ever even kissed?" Carol asked.

"No," Daryl said.

"Never?" Carol asked.

"I've thought about it," Daryl admitted.

Carol looked at him then.

"You've thought about it?" She asked.

"Not while you were—out," Daryl said. "But, hell, I'm only human. Just a man. I've thought about it. Couple times."

"Why didn't you?" Carol asked.

"Weren't my place," Daryl said. "Weren't right. Had _this_ —hanging over my head. Didn't want to kiss you under some false pretense of you thinking we were together or something. Didn't know how to tell you."

"Why didn't you _tell_ me?" Carol asked.

Daryl shrugged his shoulders.

"You only ever told Sophia that you remembered anything," Daryl said. "Never said nothing to me. Sophia thought it'd be good for you to let you get home before she told you the truth. Thought—finding out might not be too good for you. And, in the beginning, maybe it would've been too much of a shock. You're stronger now. Things—they just ain't shaky like they were." He shrugged again. "I guess I worried too. And then it went on so long—I didn't know what to say. Not if you weren't gonna ask me about it directly. Maybe—I didn't believe it was true."

"Then why tell me now?" Carol asked.

Something in her voice changed. It changed pitch. It changed tone. It sounded like she was growing mad, at least a little. Daryl understood her feelings.

"It weren't right to let you go on thinking something that weren't true," Daryl said. "And—I didn't want you finding out that way. I didn't want you getting home, thinking we were together, and then just—finding out we weren't. I didn't want you hating me for it."

"I don't think I could hate you," Carol said. "But—I don't really want to talk to you right now either. I don't even want to— _look_ at you right now."

Daryl stood up. He moved the chair back a little from the bed.

"I guess that's fair enough," he said. "Hell—you probably want some time to think about it. I had a lot longer to think about than you did."

Carol nodded her head.

"Just—want you to know that it don't mean that I don't, you know, _like_ you," Daryl said. "Care about you. Or that—I wouldn't be happy if that was the way it was. Because—that ain't what I'm trying to say. All I'm trying to say is that it ain't never been that way. You and me? We never been more'n what you know here. There weren't a before."

Carol nodded her head again, not looking at Daryl.

"I'ma get outta here," Daryl said. "Outta your hair."

"You're leaving?" Carol asked, still not looking at Daryl.

"That's what you wanted, right?" Daryl asked. "Me to leave?"

"For good?" Carol asked. She looked at him then, but it was only a glance. She looked away, quickly, like she'd corrected herself as soon as she'd realized that she'd made eye contact with Daryl.

"If that's what you want," Daryl said. "I can leave for good. But that weren't my intention. I took the night off already. I'm not on duty right now. So—I figure I'll go home. Think about things. And you'll stay here and think about things. You aren't ready to talk about them right now, but maybe you'll be ready in the morning."

"Who'll take care of me?" Carol asked. "This evening?"

"You don't even need that much anymore," Daryl said. "And there's plenty of people around here that's every bit as good at me. You'll have all you need. If you need something else, though, and there's nobody around, you just push the call button. They'll come."

"But you're coming back tomorrow?" Carol asked.

"In the morning," Daryl said.

"You promise?" Carol asked.

Daryl laughed to himself.

"Yeah," he said. "I promise. Can't keep me away. And if you want me to change, after you think about things, then I'll switch you out with another caretaker. But—maybe you'll think about things tonight and tomorrow you won't hate me so much for what I did—or didn't do."

"I don't hate you, Daryl," Carol said.

"You'll think about things," Daryl said. "You need to."

Carol looked at him again, then, and didn't immediately correct herself. She nodded at him.

"I do," she agreed. "I do need to think about things. But—I still won't hate you. You don't hate me, do you? For thinking things that just weren't true?"

Daryl swallowed a few times. His throat was sore. Not the scratchy, dry kind of sore that would tell him he was getting sick. This was more the choking sore that came with a truth that was just too hard to swallow. He shook his head.

"Farthest thing from it," he said. "But I am really sorry."

"For not telling me before?" Carol asked.

Daryl nodded his head.

"For not telling you," he agreed. "And—I'm just sorry. Sorry I didn't tell you the truth. Maybe—sorry it _weren't_ true."

Carol looked away from him and focused on the blanket on her bed like it was something interesting—like it wasn't the same customary white blanket that all the beds had on them.

"Goodnight, Daryl," Carol said.

"You want me to send Sophia in?" Daryl asked.

Carol shook her head.

"I think—I'd just like to be alone for a little while," Carol said. "I've—got a lot to think about."

"Goodnight," Daryl said.

He thought about standing there and waiting for something, but he realized that he didn't know what he'd be waiting for. He thought about demanding that she talk to him, but he knew that wasn't fair. He'd had a lot of time to think about things. He'd known what she was thinking for a while. He'd taken the whole day to work up the courage to have this conversation—failed as his stomach made him feel like it was. Carol deserved her time, too, to think about things.

And Daryl would accept whatever conclusion she reached, even if he couldn't imagine at the moment what that conclusion might actually end up being.

He left the room and walked straight out the building. He didn't speak to anyone. He didn't even speak to Sophia beyond the words "she doesn't want to see you either" before he went to his truck and climbed inside. Sophia got in next to him, asking him what happened, but he simply shook his head at her. He only spoke again to bid her goodnight as he dropped her off at her mother's home.

It was out of his hands now.


	18. Chapter 18

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **(And, by the way, today I posted my 200** **th** **work in the fandom. That's works, not chapters. 129 of them have either been all Caryl/McReedus or at least contained them as a secondary ship (and only one of those is not posted on Nine Lives). I just wanted to say thank you all for reading!)**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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Daryl slept less during the night than he could remember clocking for any night in at least the past few years. He doubted, sincerely, if he'd slept at all. The most he was sure he'd done was lie, eyes closed, in his bed and worried over things.

He'd worried about how this had happened. He'd worried about how he'd let himself get tangled up in the lie. Even if it was really an omission of the truth, Daryl saw it all as a grand lie. He should have cleared things up right away. He should have told Carol, the moment that he knew she suspected more between them than a patient-caregiver relationship, that it was all something her brain was constructing for her and was no more real than an elaborate dream.

He worried about his job. He worried about how it would affect him. Carol wouldn't be at Spring Valley for long, but she'd be there for at least a little while longer. If she didn't want him to treat her any longer, he'd have to pass her off to someone else. They'd have to know what had caused the disturbance. And, though they'd probably understand, to some degree, that what had happened was beyond Daryl's control, they'd certainly be judgmental about it. It was easy, after all, to say how you'd handle a situation that you'd never been in.

And then Carol would be there, every day, as Daryl went on about his work—but she wouldn't be his patient. She probably wouldn't even want anything to do with him.

He'd be nothing more than a strange man who had let her go on believing, for far longer than he should have, that she'd had a relationship with him in the past. He'd be a man that took advantage of her memory loss and lied to her to cover it up.

She'd forgive Sophia because she was her daughter, but she'd probably never forgive Daryl.

Maybe that's what had worried him the most, deep down in the pit of his stomach. He'd been worried that Carol would never forgive him. She'd be as gone from his life as he'd ever thought she might be once she learned the truth the way that Sophia had planned for her to learn it, but she'd be gone by her own choice. And she'd go hating Daryl for his dishonesty.

Daryl was so exhausted, when morning came, that he considered calling in sick again. He had days. He could take them. He could stay home, hide from Carol and from the situation at hand, and drown his feelings in Jim Beam until he finally passed out and at least got some artificial rest. It wasn't his idea of the best kind of day, but it looked considerably better than what he was facing.

Still, he'd promised Carol that he'd come in the morning and he'd lied enough to her for a lifetime. He wasn't going to add insult to injury by using his banked up sick days to avoid her until she was finally released.

When he got to work, Daryl didn't speak to anyone. He signed himself in, changed in the locker room, and washed his face in the sink. Washing his face, though, didn't wash the tired out of his system. It didn't even wash the appearance of tired off his features.

He went through his normal routine, visiting every one of his patients except Carol, to get their mornings started. Quietly he checked their charts from the night before and updated them. He gave meds and he changed IV bags and he cleaned up those who needed a little "refreshing" to start their day on the right side of the bed.

And finally, heavy footed and caught up on his morning checklist, Daryl headed to Carol's room.

She'd already been brought breakfast. As he stepped into the doorway, he could see her sitting there, watching the nothing out the window, while she slowly chewed at piece of toast she'd coated in butter and jam. She didn't notice him at first. She had no idea when he might be coming in.

Daryl watched her for a moment, aware that it might be the last time that she looked so calm in his presence—aware that it might even be the last time that she was even _in_ his presence.

But finally he cleared his throat to let the sound announce that he was there. Carol turned and looked at him, stopping mid chew. She offered him something of a smile, which surprised him, and returned the half-eaten piece of toast to her plate.

"Don't stop eating on my account," Daryl said. "Good for you. Need to eat."

"It's my second plate of toast," Carol said. "And—I don't really want it. I just—wanted to _chew_. As odd as that might sound."

Daryl laughed to himself.

"If you wanted to chew, you could always just ask for some gum," Daryl said. "I think you could have it now. Not a good chance you're gonna choke on it."

"I knew you'd say I needed the calories," Carol said. "So—toast."

"Can I come in?" Daryl asked. "Or would you rather I kept my distance and stayed over here?"

Carol shook her head at him and waved toward the chair that was beside her bed. Daryl walked into the room and focused on breathing around the feeling of his constricted chest and pounding heart. The sensation was something he was growing more accustomed to now and he was starting to accept that it was simply a new and permanent condition that he would have to learn to live with.

Daryl sat in the chair beside Carol's bed and when she started to roll her tray table out of the way, he reached a hand up and helped tug it so that it wouldn't be bothering her. She wiped her hands together and then folded them on her lap before she turned to study him. The smile was gone now. It was replaced by a wrinkle right in the middle of her forehead.

"You don't look well, Daryl," Carol said. "Are you OK?"

Daryl scratched at his face. He shook his head.

"Feel just about as good as I look, I reckon," Daryl said. "Wasn't an easy night."

"For either one of us," Carol said.

"Sorry," Daryl said. "Probably my fault if you didn't rest."

"I'm a big girl," Carol said. "I'm more than capable of—keeping myself up. I'm sure that last night wasn't the first time I've done it. You were up thinking?"

"Worrying, more'n anything," Daryl said. "Feeling bad for—for what I done. Wondering how I could've changed it. When I shoulda done it. You?"

"Thinking," Carol confirmed. She sucked in a breath. "Thinking about—everything I thought I remembered and...how little I really do remember. How it might not ever come back."

"It'll come back," Daryl said. "Probably come back better'n you remember it right now."

Carol hummed and shook her head. Something like a faint smile crossed her lips.

"No," she said. "I don't think that what I remember—if I ever do remember it—will be better than what I _thought_ I remembered. I don't think it can be."

"Sorry for that, too," Daryl said. "My fault you got all them ideas planted in your head."

"You weren't the first man to ever plant ideas in a woman's head that turned out to be little more than fiction," Carol said. "I can promise you that. Besides—even those books wouldn't exist if we didn't just...just want to think about those things sometimes. Imagine them."

Daryl chewed his lip and nodded his head.

"Think I had a couple conversations with you about that," Daryl said. "While I was reading them books. How much—how much did you believe was real when you read them? About how much—you mighta just wanted to have some kinda fantasy."

Carol smiled again.

"And you were my fantasy," she said.

Daryl's stomach did an odd sort of loopty loop.

"I'm not much of a fantasy," Daryl said. "Not in real life. Not outside—imagining them books."

Carol laughed to herself.

"Don't sell yourself too short," she said. "One thing I _do_ remember is that there's certainly worse men than you out there. A lot worse."

Daryl sucked in a breath and held it on purpose for a moment before he slowly released it.

"So what'd you decide?" He asked. "About all of this? What—do you want me to do? Because you don't have to move. If you were gonna be here a long time, they'd move you. But you really don't have that much longer here. You'll be going home soon. Getting back to your real life. Someone could walk a couple of feet out of their way to take care of you right here for the time being."

Carol shook her head at him.

"Won't be necessary," she said. "I thought about it and—I'm not mad at you. I don't even think that I ever thought I was. You read the books. You didn't tell me to imagine you in them. And you never—Daryl, you never told me that there was anything there between us."

"Didn't tell you there wasn't," Daryl pointed out.

"And I didn't tell you that nearly every time you told me my heart rate was up it was because I was wondering if you were going to kiss me then," Carol pointed out. "Instead of—that I was nervous because I thought you were going to prick my finger again. But it doesn't mean I lied about feeling nervous."

Daryl laughed to himself.

"I just thought you were terrified of needles," he pointed out.

"I don't like them," Carol said. "But—that wasn't what was making me feel like my heart was going to jump out of my chest. I just knew that—one day it was going to be the first kiss. And it was going to be old news to you, but it was going to be the very first one to me, even if it was the first one _again_. And I guess, I was scared that it wasn't going to live up to what you remembered."

Daryl laughed to himself.

"You can scratch one fear off your list, then," Daryl said. He sat forward in his chair. His heart was still thumping in his own chest, much like Carol described hers as having done, but it was slowing down some. Carol, at once, terrified and comforted him. Daryl couldn't recall anyone ever having that kind of power over him before. It was a little bit wonderful, but it was also a little bit terrifying.

"What do you want to happen, Carol?" Daryl asked. "If you don't want me to find nobody else? What do you want to happen here?"

"I want things to stay just like they are," Carol said. "I don't want you to go anywhere. I don't want—someone new. I just want things to stay like they are."

Daryl nodded at her.

"Then that's what they'll do. I'll keep taking care of you. You'll be outta here in a couple of weeks if you keep going like you're going. Maybe sooner. Before you know it, you'll be back to planting wildflowers and—doing whatever else it is you feel like doing around your house."

"And you?" Carol asked. "Where will you be?"

"Right here," Daryl said. "Right where I always am."

"But you can't work all the time, Daryl," Carol said.

Daryl laughed to himself.

"Yeah, you'd be surprised," he said.

Carol shifted around and Daryl started to stand up to help her. She held a hand out to ask him to stop. He sat back down and she got herself comfortable.

"When I said I didn't want things to change," Carol said, "I meant that I wanted you to keep taking care of me. But I also meant that...I didn't want things to change between us."

"Weren't no us," Daryl said. "Not beyond what you see right here."

"What if—I wanted _that_ to be an us?" Carol asked.

Daryl's stomach did another flip that made him happy he'd bypassed breakfast that morning. If he'd eaten, he feared his stomach would be churning up the food like an old fashioned washing machine right now.

"You mean you and me?" Daryl asked. "Like we are? Just—being in a relationship?"

"I've been thinking about it almost all night," Carol said. "And they all had to start somewhere. At least, this way, neither of us has an advantage over the other. We're both starting at square one together."

"But you don't know me," Daryl said. "You don't hardly know yourself. I mean, I'm sorry, but it's true. You don't know that you want to be in a relationship with me. Because—I ain't nothing like the men in them stories. I'm nothing like what you thought I am. I'm messy and—I don't water ski. I don't even like to travel if I gotta get on a plane."

Carol laughed at him.

"I thought about that too," Carol said. "And even though—I thought I remembered all those things? I didn't remember them that clearly. I mean, I remembered them, but they were far away. They were distant. And—it wasn't ever that man, the one that I remembered, that I loved. It was you. Just you. Just—just as you are right now. Just as I've—well, as I've always known you to be."

Daryl's heart kicked up a notch again. He was glad that Carol couldn't hear it, though he was also a little surprised that she couldn't.

"Did you say..." he started. Carol interrupted him before he could get the whole question out.

"That I loved you?" Carol asked. She nodded. "I did. And I do. Because—I _let_ myself love you. But if that's too much...if it's too soon..."

"You don't know me," Daryl said.

"You don't feel the same, is what you mean to say," Carol countered.

Daryl swallowed.

"Didn't say that," he said.

"But you didn't say you _did_ love me," Carol said. Daryl stared at her. He found that he couldn't say anything at the moment. She stared right back at him, searching his face with the baby blue eyes that he'd looked forward to seeing every day since he'd first seen them open on their own. "Is it that you don't feel that way, Daryl? Or that—you just can't _say_ it?"

Daryl chewed his lip.

"I got feelings," he said. It wasn't what she asked, but it was the best that he could choke out at the moment. "Just—don't want you making mistakes."

"Can you let me worry about my mistakes?" Carol asked. "And you worry about the ones you might be making? You don't know me either, you know...not any better than I know you. Not really. After all—I don't even know myself."

Daryl swallowed again. He'd never quite remembered it being as hard as it seemed to be right now.

"I know enough, I think," Daryl said.

"Me too," Carol said. She sucked in a breath and, for the first time, Daryl became aware that it might not be much easier for her than it was for him at the moment.

"You OK?" Daryl asked.

"I will be," Carol said.

"Need something?" Daryl asked.

Carol nodded and Daryl got to his feet to take care of whatever needs she might have. The rapid rising and falling of her chest was the first concern for him and he reached behind her to get the mask so he could offer her some oxygen—a little help with her breathing. She caught his hand.

"I don't need oxygen," Carol said. "I need—an answer. Are we going to try this?"

"You mean you and me?" Daryl asked.

Carol nodded her head and hummed at him, never losing eye contact with him. Daryl swallowed and quickly nodded his head at her.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah..." he repeated, sorry that he couldn't seem to find something better to say.

Carol chewed her lip.

"Then—I think you owe me a kiss," Carol said. "It's—only fair."

"I don't know if I'm very good at it," Daryl offered. "To be honest."

Carol smiled at him and raised her eyebrows.

"I don't either," she said. "I can't remember."

Daryl laughed to himself and gathered up what little bit of courage he could find swimming around in his chest. He leaned down and brought his lips to hers even as she moved herself just enough to meet him for the kiss.

It was slow and soft and easy. It lasted longer than it probably needed to last, but it felt just right to Daryl. They broke away for a second, only for Daryl to realize that he didn't want it to end. Not yet. There was too much fear there that there might not be a second one—there might not be another chance—and he didn't want to let go of it just yet. Carol didn't fight him either. She kissed him back the second time just as gently as she had the first.

And finally he broke them apart.

"You had strawberry jam," Daryl said, his face burning hot from the kiss. Carol's cheeks, too, were pink. She nodded her head gently. "Well?" Daryl asked. "How was it? You can be honest."

Carol smiled at him.

"I think I need the oxygen now," she offered.


	19. Chapter 19

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here. Not too terribly much left to go here. A few more chapters.**

 **There's a small time jump here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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Daryl was prouder than he expected to be the day that they took Carol home. She'd succumbed to the wheelchair—a general rule—to get to the car, but she'd walked on her own from the car to the house. Daryl sent Sophia ahead with her to act as support while he'd gotten her bags and brought them into her house.

It was clear, the moment that Daryl got her bags into her bedroom, that Carol didn't recognize her room. She didn't know her house.

And that wasn't what she expected at all.

Daryl put everything down and crossed the room to where Carol was standing, her hands over her mouth, looking at the trinkets and assorted items that cluttered up the top of her dresser. Sophia was in the kitchen getting lunch ready. Daryl was crisis control for the moment.

Walking up behind her, Daryl put his hands on Carol's shoulders. He felt her tense under the unexpected touch and then relax. She leaned back into him, relaxing a little more.

"You wanna sit?" He asked. "Don't want to overdo it too much."

He didn't really know what to say to her, and those words were something even if they weren't the best ones. She could handle standing up and Daryl knew it. Her physical therapy was going well. She was doing well. She could go for a walk around the neighborhood if that's what she wanted to do.

But Daryl didn't know what else to say and he figured that saying anything might open the door for her to say whatever was on her mind. It must have worked. She shook her head at him and made a noise in her throat that didn't seem to really mean anything in particular.

"I don't know this place," she said finally. "I don't know—this house. I don't know this room. I don't know anything."

Daryl heard the crack in her voice at the end of her statement and he turned her around, physically, so that she was facing him. He caught her hands and shook his head at her.

"You're getting overwhelmed," he said. "That's—that's all it is. You're getting overwhelmed. You thought it was all gonna come back like a wave and that's not how it's gonna work. You'll walk around. You'll touch things. _Smell_ things, even. And a little bit'll come back. You'll remember—this quilt and the way that the sheets feel. You'll remember the plates or the way your microwave works. Little by little, you'll get the flashes like you been getting until they all kinda run together. But that's how it's all gonna happen. Little by little. Not all at once."

"I don't know anything," Carol repeated.

"Nothing here is familiar?" Daryl asked. "You don't look at anything here and think you might've seen it before?"

He held her hands in his and Carol looked around like it was her first time seeing the room again. Daryl had already learned that Carol, when she got overwhelmed, seemed to block out some of the things that she really did know. Things that she already remembered seemed to disappear when she was overwhelmed—when the machines made her feel claustrophobic, when a procedure worried her, when she thought something was getting out of her control—but as soon as she could calm down again, she would get it all back.

She took her time looking around, her hands in his, and then she sucked in a breath and shrugged her shoulders.

"It's all familiar," she said with the release of the breath she'd just drawn in. "It's all—like I know it, but I don't. It's familiar and it's strange at the same time."

Daryl smiled at her. He couldn't help it. He nodded his head.

"And that's perfect," he said. "It's there. Just like it's supposed to be. Remember? Like you said before. Just at the edge of your eye—like if you could turn your head quick enough, you could remember it."

"But I can't turn my head quickly enough," Carol said. She already looked lighter, though, than she had only moments before.

"But one day soon, you won't even need to turn your head," Daryl said. "We'll set up your routine, remember? As much like your old one as we can. We'll set it up and—little by little? It'll all come back."

Carol let go of Daryl's hands then and walked away from him. He let her go. He wanted her to go. He wanted her to explore her space. She walked a small circle around the room and then she went to the bed and sat down on it. Without speaking, she rubbed her hand over the blanket.

"I do remember this quilt," Carol said.

"You do?" Daryl asked, crossing to sit beside her on the bed.

Carol nodded and swallowed several times rapidly, her throat bobbing.

"My grandmother made it," Carol said. "I remember it. I remember because—my mama gave it to me when I got married." She moved to somewhat crawl around on the bed and Daryl watched her as she flipped back corners and pulled up the edges of it. Finally, she stopped and sat back, looking satisfied as she rubbed her hands on the underside of the quilt where she'd turned it back. "The stain's there," she said. "I knew it would be there and it's there."

Daryl moved to be able to see what she was talking about. There was a brown stain on the quilt.

"What is it?" Daryl asked.

Carol hummed in her throat.

"A blood stain," she said. "I got—one time I got blood on it. When I was married. I tried to wash it out but it never would come out and I was afraid to bleach it. After that? I put it away because I was afraid it would get ruined. I didn't get it back out until I moved." She sighed and looked at Daryl. She looked oddly pleased for what he considered a quite uncomfortable memory. "Until I moved in here," Carol said. "I bought this house after I left my husband."

Daryl frowned at her, even though she was smiling at him.

"OK," he said. "That weren't exactly the kind of good memory I was thinking that we might start off with but..."

"But I remember it," Carol said.

"Yeah," Daryl said. "There's that."

"Why are you making that face?" Carol asked, furrowing her brows, her smile erased for the moment.

Daryl swallowed.

"Because if your memory was gonna get wiped clean of so much," Daryl said. "I wish we could've picked and chosen what it was gonna wipe out. Then we might not even have to worry about whether or not you'd get some of it back. It'd be better to just—leave it gone."

"It might not be the best memory," Carol said, "but it's something I remember, and I'll take it. It's something that's over now anyway, right?"

Daryl nodded his head.

"It's over," he said. "Just a memory."

"Then it doesn't matter, really, does it?" Carol said.

Daryl laughed to himself.

"You're the one upset about memories," he said. "So you tell me how much it matters."

Carol dropped her eyes to the blanket. Maybe she was remembering her ex-husband—a man Daryl didn't like though he'd never met him. Maybe she was remember her grandmother who had made the quilt or her mother who had given it to her. Maybe she was just thinking about the fact that her memories, just like they told her, were all inside her and just needed the chance to find their way back out.

Whatever she was thinking about, Daryl sat there and quietly let her think about them.

When she brought her eyes back to his, the line between her brows wasn't gone. If anything, it was deeper from her time spent thinking.

"I just worry that—if I can't remember me? If I can't remember—who I am? How do I even know that I'm not an entirely different person?" Carol asked. "How do I know—that I'm even offering you the best person that I _could_ be?"

Daryl laughed to himself and shook his head.

"I'll take it," he said. "I'll take you. I like who you are now. I'm sure—I'da liked who you were then. So whatever happens? I'll take it."

Carol offered him a hint of a smile, but he could tell that she was struggling with it. It wasn't him. She wasn't struggling with him or their relationship—still budding as it was. She wasn't struggling with the fact that they were going to try to be together, in a very different way, now that she was out of Spring Valley. She was struggling with something inside herself—something she didn't know, something she wasn't comfortable with. She was struggling with the fact that she couldn't be entirely sure _who_ she was.

She was sure about Daryl. She wasn't sure, yet, about herself.

Daryl reached his hand over and touched her face. She closed her eyes and turned her face into his hand, so he brushed his thumb across her cheek.

"It'll come back," he offered. "And if it don't? It just don't matter. We'll make it work. We'll—find what we can and the rest? We'll all just make it new again, right? You get—a whole new bunch of memories."

Carol turned her face enough to kiss his palm. She pressed her lips to his hand and held them there for a moment and then she turned and looked at him again. Her eyes open to him, he moved his hand. She nodded.

"Yeah," she said. "Yeah. You're right. If it comes back—that's great. But it doesn't mean anything. It doesn't mean that—if I remember I was somebody else that I have to change to be her again, right? Especially if—I don't like her as much as I like me? I don't have to be that, right?"

"Right," Daryl agreed, even though he knew that she really didn't need him to say anything.

"And—even if I don't have all of the old memories," Carol said, "there's still time to make more. It doesn't mean that I'm just going to spend the rest of my life without any memories at all."

Daryl laughed to himself and shook his head.

"Not likely," he said. "Just means you got more room to store the new ones before they start pushing out the old. Do you know how much I don't remember? And I ain't never had traumatic brain injury."

"We'll make new ones," Carol said.

Daryl nodded.

"You and me," he said. "And Sophia. And—anybody else you want. We'll make new ones. As many as you can stand."

Carol laughed at that and the laugh seemed genuine. She slid her hand across the quilt and found Daryl's fingers with her own. He watched as she affectionately touched him.

He didn't point out what he was thinking. He didn't point out that this was the first time that they'd ever been alone—ever been able to touch each other—when they weren't at his place of work or somewhere where she was a patient. It was their first _normal_ quiet moment—and he liked it very much, even if it was nothing more than sitting beside each other and having the same sort of conversation they might have had any day before.

 _He liked it very much_.

But either Carol was thinking about something similar or she was reading his thoughts, because when she spoke, it sounded like she was speaking directly to Daryl's inner musings.

"I'm going to miss you," she said. Daryl's chest tugged a little. In five words it summed up his thoughts about the whole thing. He was happy that she was out, and he was happy that she was getting on with her life—and maybe they were getting on with theirs—but he was going to miss what they had already had together.

"Not going anywhere," he said. "Not really. Just—work and home. But I'll be here a lot."

"But I won't see you all day," Carol said. "And I might not even see you every day."

Daryl cleared his throat.

"If you wanna see me every day," he said, "then you'll see me every day. I'll stop by every day when I get off work. Every single one. If that's what you want."

Carol nodded her head.

"It's what I want," she said.

"You might change your mind," Daryl said.

"I won't change my mind," Carol said, shaking her head.

Daryl laughed to himself.

"But you might," he said. "Sophia's hired you a day nurse that's gonna be here to help you out. Just until—you know. Just until you're feeling up to handling everything on your own." He raised his eyebrows at her and playfully wagged them. "You might get something you like. You might get to thinking it's something you like more than me."

She narrowed her eyes at him and playfully dove toward him. He let her take him down on the bed, even though she didn't really have the force to do so. She somewhat toppled onto him, laughing.

"You're mean to me," she teased. "You know I'm not going to do that!"

"Hey I don't know!" He teased back. "Hell—I don't know I was the first you fell for. And—you don't neither so I guess we just gotta find out."

Carol stopped playfully fighting against him. She rested against him and Daryl took the chance to move a hand to touch her back, holding her in place. The all too familiar feeling of not being able to breathe came back to his chest and he couldn't blame it on her weight pressing down on him—she was as light as a feather. Her eyes danced around as she looked at his face. She gave him a hint of a smile and dipped her head, finding his lips. He returned the kiss and let her choose when it was broken. She returned to the position, hovering over him, and he cleared his throat.

He wanted more. His body cried out for more and his mind did too. But he also knew that she wasn't ready for more.

And he wasn't going to push until she was.

"Better check on that lunch," Daryl offered. "You need something to eat and—you need some time to get settled."

"I wouldn't," Carol said. "Fall in love with someone else." She shook her head at him. "I remember enough to know that, too. I've—never done it before. And—it's never been quite the same. Not with Ed, even, and I remember. I know that I _did_ love him." Daryl nodded his head. "But it wasn't the same," Carol said. "And it's not going to happen again. It can't—because it never happened before. I never felt—I never felt just like this."

Daryl cleared his throat again and nodded, pushing her back so that he could sit up and actually do what he said he intended to do and set about getting her settled in.

"I know," he said, pushing himself up. "I know. Me too."


	20. Chapter 20

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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The most beautiful woman in all of Georgia sat across the table from Daryl and he kept looking around to see if anyone else had noticed—he kept looking to see if they were looking at him and they were wondering how he'd gotten so lucky as to have her there. He was looking to see how many of them, now, were sizing up their dates because they found them just a little dull after Carol had walked, on Daryl's arm nonetheless, from the entrance of the restaurant to the table that he'd requested near the window.

It was the nicest place around and the table that Daryl had chosen was, as he was promised when he'd called for the reservation, the nicest that they had. It allowed them to enjoy the ambiance of the room, but it also allowed them a nice view of the small lake beside the restaurant that was lit up with lights from the few docks that dotted the far side. It was the kind of place that had forced Daryl to go shopping before he could even bring Carol here, but he thought he'd done alright—with the help of the sales woman—in picking out something to wear.

And it was important that it was nice, because they were making memories.

It was their first nice dinner out.

Daryl had taken Carol out before, of course, but never to any place where she was required to change into anything special. He swung by her house every day when he got off work and some of those days she wanted to go out. He'd take her for a burger or Mexican food. They'd go out for Chinese and ice cream and, sometimes, on his days off, they went for a movie or went to sit in the park and watch people walk their dogs and take part in other outside activities.

But this was the first nice dinner that they had out.

In the three months since Carol had left Spring Valley, there was a lot of change in her. Most of it was physical. She was stronger. She went to physical therapy every week and she put the exercises she learned there to use at home. She was building muscle and she was building stamina. She was no longer winded by just a few stairs. She was becoming independent. She no longer needed the day-nurse that Sophia had hired for her. And, though Sophia worked primarily from Georgia, she travelled some occasionally and didn't worry too much about leaving Carol alone—not as long as she agreed to wear the medical alert necklace in the house that Carol teased made her feel like she was pushing a hundred years old.

Her memory was coming back, in blotches and splatters, but her short term memory was good. She didn't, as they'd worried she might, forget that she put the dinner on to cook. She didn't forget a kettle left on the stove or a candle that was burning. She didn't forget what time Daryl said he was coming over or when Sophia would be back from a quick trip.

And she wasn't forgetting any _new_ memories.

But she hadn't recovered all of the _old._

And even though Daryl never said it to her directly, he was beginning to think that maybe she wouldn't. Maybe some of the things she'd known and experienced were just gone from her. They'd never return. Of course, maybe they would, but Daryl didn't worry about it too much because Carol didn't seem to worry about it too much. She was enjoying her life, as it was, and she seemed too busy living each new moment to spend too much time dwelling on all the past ones that she was missing.

Daryl let Carol order the wine for the table when the waiter came by to ask what they wanted. She picked something, but Daryl didn't know what it even was or whether or not he'd like it. He watched her, smiling at the waiter while she ordered, until the man left and she brought her eyes back to Daryl. She renewed the smile.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Carol asked.

"You never fail to impress me," Daryl said. "I don't know a damn thing about wine."

Carol laughed at him and shook her head.

"Confession? I don't either. But when he said it, he kind of nodded his head. Sometimes people do that when they're trying to help you figure out what they think the best answer is. So—that's what I ordered," Carol admitted.

Daryl laughed.

"So you don't got a single idea what we're getting neither, that's what you're saying," Daryl responded.

"It can't be that bad," Carol said. "And if it is? We'll just have one glass and say we don't want more. Unless—you felt like you needed to drink to get through the evening?"

Daryl shook his head at her.

"Never with you," he commented. And it was true. He'd never been a fan of getting shit-faced drunk like some of the people he knew, but he'd certainly drank enough in his life. Since he'd been with Carol, though, he never seemed to need it. Every now and again they had a beer together or some kind of cocktail that Carol saw in a magazine and wanted to try—but she wasn't supposed to drink much and he didn't feel the need to. It just wasn't necessary. "So—what you gonna get?"

Carol hummed and looked over the menu that she'd been looking over since they sat.

"I don't know what I want," she said.

"You done forgot what you like to eat," Daryl teased. He clucked his tongue at her. "Next thing I know? You'll be looking at me and wondering—what the hell is this asshole doing sitting here? Drinking my wine?"

Carol reached across the table and swatted him and Daryl laughed to himself. Her memory was a touchy subject and, because of that, he made a joke of it as often as possible. He figured the more they teased about it—and the more that she saw that it didn't really change a single thing—the less touchy it would get. And it seemed like he was, at least partially, on to something.

"I remember what I like to eat," Carol said. "But it's just that I want so much of this right now. This lobster pasta dish looks _amazing_. But that chicken? The one with the mushrooms? That looks like—I can't decide."

"Then we get both," Daryl said matter-of-factly. "And I want this smothered steak so we get that too."

"Three plates of food, Daryl?" Carol asked.

"Take home what we don't eat," Daryl said. "Sophia will eat it if you don't."

Carol cocked an eyebrow at him.

"I think it's your memory that's failing," Carol teased. "Sophia's gone for three days."

"Then you eat it," Daryl said. "You need to eat."

"You know," Carol said, "I've been gaining weight under your little "you need it" philosophy. You can't keep saying it forever."

Daryl laughed to himself and when Carol pressed him to explain his laughter, he shook his head at her.

"Nothin'," Daryl said. "I know you been gaining weight. I can see it. But—you do need it because you were underweight."

"And now I'm overweight?" Carol asked.

"No," Daryl said. "Now you're putting words in my mouth. You were underweight. Come from that delightful all liquid diet you were having. Now? You're filling out. Starting to look healthy. Like you don't miss meals you ought to eat. And that's a good thing."

"Fattening me up is a good thing?" Carol asked.

"Didn't nobody at this table say fat except you," Daryl pointed out. "Looking just right to me. And as long as I'm the only one looking—guess that's about all that matters." Carol's cheeks blushed a little pink in the dimly lit restaurant and she focused very hard on the menu like she might pick yet another plate for them to take home. " _Am_ I the only one that's looking?" Daryl asked, laughing to himself. Carol looked at him, then, but her cheeks retained the pink tint—perhaps it was even renewed. Daryl glanced around. "Well—I'm not the only one that's looking," he said. "Even I can see that."

"You're the only one that matters," Carol said. "If anyone else is even looking. If they are—I don't know about it."

"Good enough for me, then," Daryl said.

"Am I the only one?" Carol asked.

Daryl raised his eyebrows and hummed at her.

"What?" He asked.

"Am I the only one _you're_ looking at?" Carol asked.

Daryl's stomach did an odd sort of flip. He laughed it off.

"What're you talking about?" He asked.

"You ask me a lot," Carol said, "if you're the only one. You—tease me. And, don't get me wrong, I like it. I love—I love when you're teasing me. But you're always asking me if I'm the only one or suggesting that—there might be someone else I'm interested in. Even if I—if I'm only going to therapy or the drug store or the grocery store when Sophia lets me tag along. What about you? Am I the only one that you're looking at?"

Daryl laughed to himself, but he could see that she was serious. He nodded his head.

"You're the only one I'm looking at," he assured her. "In fact? You're the only one I've been looking at for years. Besides—once you got the best, why you gonna keep looking?"

The pink renewed itself and Carol stretched her arm out, bringing her hand across the table to touch at the fingers of Daryl's hand that was resting on the table.

"Maybe that's the same way I feel too," Carol said. "Maybe there's nobody else looking. Or—maybe there are a lot of people looking that I don't even know about. But I do know that," she shook her head at him, "that I'm not looking at them."

Daryl turned his hand so that her hand fell into his and he squeezed it.

"Good enough for me," he said. "You done looking at that menu? Figured out what you're getting for here and what you're taking home? Because that waiter's eyeing us, but I got a feeling that he don't come back over here until we close these things."

Carol turned and looked over her shoulder in the direction that Daryl was looking to find the waiter herself. He was circling around, doing his job, but he kept stopping and watching them. He was waiting for the right time to take an order, but he wasn't sure when they were ready for it. Carol turned back at Daryl and nodded, closing her menu.

"I'm getting the chicken," she said.

"And the pasta to take home," Daryl confirmed.

"I don't need two entrees," Carol said.

"You'll need it later," Daryl responded.

"Then you get something to take home too," Carol demanded. "Because you need it as much as I do. Probably more. When you come to the house you always eat like you're starving and I know you love that cafeteria food. I don't know you're eating well at home when you go home."

Daryl laughed to himself.

"I eat like I'm starving at your house because you're a good cook," he pointed out. "And I like the cafeteria food because I don't gotta make it and I don't gotta clean up after it. But—if it'll make you get the pasta to take home? I'll order something to take home. It's all the same to me. Hell—tomorrow's my day off. I'll just bring it over to your house and we'll eat it for lunch together." Carol sucked in a breath that was loud enough for Daryl to hear across the table. He glanced up from his menu, his eyes having returned there to seek out something that would look good for the coming day, and he saw that Carol was looking around. Her face, though, showed clearly that she was struggling with something. He frowned at her. "What's wrong?" He asked.

"I don't know—how to do this," Carol said.

Daryl raised his eyebrows at her. He straightened up in his chair, recognizing that she was struggling with something and it was a sincere struggle. The last thing he wanted was for her to get upset or overwhelmed at what he hoped would be a very nice memory for her of a very nice dinner.

"Do what, Carol?" He asked. "We're just gonna order the food. If that's what you're worried about? Just gonna order it and tell the guy that we want the one thing now but we want the other when we're ready to leave. If you don't wanna do it, I can order the food."

He slid his hand across the table, now, to find hers and she let him squeeze her hand before she pulled hers free and played with his fingers. She shook her head and licked her lips. She even laughed to herself.

"It's not about ordering the food, Daryl," Carol said. "I can order food. I can even ask for something to go if I want it."

"Then what don't you know how to do? Because that's all we're doing here," Daryl said.

Carol looked at him like she wanted him to read her mind. She looked like she was _desperate_ for him to read her mind. And, at that moment, he was almost desperate to magically gain the ability to do so.

"Sophia's gone for a couple of days," Carol said. "And—tomorrow is your day off. I was just...Daryl? What if you don't come over tomorrow?"

Daryl tensed a little. He raised his eyebrows at her.

"You want some time?" He asked. "Because—if you want some time, I don't have to come over tomorrow. I was just saying I would because...because that's what you normally want me to do. But if you don't? I don't gotta..."

Carol shook her head.

"No," she said, interrupting him. "I mean—what if you don't come over because...you were already there?"

"Already at your house?" Daryl asked.

Carol nodded.

"That's what I don't know—how to ask," Carol said. "Because I don't know if I should and I don't know if it's what you want to hear or if..."

"Just ask," Daryl said, laughing nervously to himself because his stomach wasn't sure what to do with even the _possibility_ of what Carol might be suggesting.

Carol sucked in another breath and held it. Daryl watched her as she chose the moment that she wanted to let it out. She set her features like she was going to tell him something horrible. It was like it was something very serious. It was something she had to say and she had no idea how he might react.

"Spend the night with me?" She asked.

Daryl smiled at her and nodded his head.

"Can't think of anything I'd rather do," he said.

Carol laughed, immediately looking relieved.

"Really?" She asked.

He hummed.

"Really," he said. "Bad enough—I almost wanna ask for the whole damn meal to go and leave as soon as we can."

"You want to go?" Carol asked, raising her eyebrows at him.

He shook his head.

"No," he said. "I wanna stay. Enjoy our dinner. Just like we planned. And then? I wanna take you home."


	21. Chapter 21

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here. There's one more to go.**

 **This one made me change the rating. Those of you that know me know that I don't often write the smuffy scenes, but I felt like this story needed it.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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The kisses that Carol gave Daryl from the car to the door were different than the kisses that she'd given him before. They were hungry. They were the kind of kisses where she grabbed his face and nearly made him drop the food that he was carrying. They were the kinds of kisses that made them both stumble more than once in the short distance.

They were the kinds of kisses that made him think he'd never get the door open and that he'd certainly never get it open "in time".

But whatever fire had been burning hot outside the door seemed to die down considerably once they were inside the house. Carol put the food away, very much as Daryl expected, and Daryl came out of his jacket and shoes. He took off his belt in the living room, meaning to leave enough on that he could pretend he had no expectation of where this might be going, and he tried to steal another of the hungry kisses from Carol when she came through the living room from the kitchen.

But she shied away from him.

She made a large loop around him and went to the bedroom. Daryl didn't understand it at all. He must have done something wrong between the door and the living room, but for the life of him he didn't know what it could have been. He could think that he was reading the signs wrong, and maybe he was getting her intentions wrong altogether, but that was hard to believe.

The way she was kissing him seemed impossible to misinterpret.

Daryl finally went toward Carol's bedroom himself. He found that she'd left the door open, but still he lingered outside of it instead of inviting himself into her personal space. He tapped at the doorframe and waited for her to respond to him.

"Come in," Carol called.

Inside the bedroom, he found her sitting on the side of her bed with her shoes off.

Daryl cleared his throat.

"Did you—did'ja change your mind or...you just wanna watch a movie or something?" Daryl asked.

"Is that what you want to do?" Carol asked.

Daryl laughed to himself and chewed at his bottom lip. He felt as much like one of those cartoon characters with a devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other as he'd ever felt in his life. The angel wanted him to tell Carol that he was great with that—a movie and some cuddling sounded excellent, and afterward he could sleep on her couch while she went to bed—but the devil was having himself a tantrum. Because a little cuddling wasn't going to make Daryl feel any better and, after three months of cuddling, there were certain parts of his anatomy that he'd told one too many times to simply quiet down and wait until they got home.

"What do you want?" Daryl asked, finally choosing what he thought was the safest response. "Because—I think I know what you were wanting in the driveway, but I don't know what happened to that." Carol looked like she was going to answer him, but she sat there with her mouth hung partially open like she'd forgotten her words as abruptly as she'd forgotten her mood. Daryl laughed to himself and scratched nervously at the back of his neck. "If you dropped it out there or something, just tell me. I'll go hunt for it. Pick it up. Probably bring it in and brush it off and it'll be—it'll be just about good as new."

Carol frowned at him and he regretted having said what he said.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I just—got scared."

"Scared of what?" Daryl asked. He tried to push back a slightly annoyed feeling that seemed to start at the base of his spine and crawl its way up. "I think—I've done everything I can, Carol, to let you know that I won't hurt you. I don't think I've ever done anything to hurt you. I mean—besides maybe poking you when you didn't want to be poked or...you weren't a big fan of that feeding tube removal. But I don't hurt you just to hurt you and I weren't planning on starting it now. If you don't want something to happen—it just won't happen."

"I'm not scared of you hurting me," Carol said.

"Then what are you scared of?" Daryl asked. "Tell me. You told me when you were scared to go to sleep. You told me when—when you were scared to go in them machines. Tell me what you're scared of now. Maybe I can fix it."

Carol shrugged her shoulders at him and sighed.

"I'm scared of a lot of things," Carol said. "I don't even remember if—I liked sex, really. I don't remember if I'm any good at it."

Daryl laughed to himself.

"Hell, it's been long enough since I've had sex that I don't hardly remember if I liked it or if I'm any good at it, but I'm willing to try," Daryl said. "I won't judge you too harsh if you don't hold it against me."

"It's more than that," Carol said.

"Well—keep going, then," Daryl said.

"Daryl—you took care of me," Carol said. "Very good care of me. For a long time."

"OK," Daryl said. "Is that the problem?"

"After everything you did?" Carol asked. "I just think about it and—I don't know how you could find me attractive after some of the things that you did. Some of the things that you had to do. I'm mortified to just think about it."

Daryl laughed to himself.

"Don't worry," Daryl said. "It don't bother me at all."

"How can it not?" Carol asked. "I mean—you did _everything_ for me."

"I'm good at compartmentalizing," Daryl said. She made a face at him and he laughed to himself. "I am," he said. "Look—you gotta be to do what I do. You gotta teach your brain how it's supposed to see things. Things that happen at work? They're work things. Gotta look at 'em a certain way. Otherwise—let's just say breasts turn you on. You can't go gettin' turned on every time you gotta see a woman without her shirt on. So—you compartmentalize. What's work is work."

"You've seen everything," Carol said. "Up close and personal. If I have it—you've seen it."

Daryl sucked in a breath and held it. He nodded his head.

"I've seen it," he agreed. "And—it's all just fine. All where it's supposed to be. Everything's _what_ it's supposed to be."

"There's no mystery there," Carol said. "There's no—I haven't seen you naked, Daryl. I haven't seen you or...or touched you. There's excitement for that first time. But for you? There's no mystery to me. There's no... _excitement_."

Daryl laughed to himself.

"Oh there's plenty of excitement," he assured her. "Enough that—if we don't get the show on the road if it's going on the road? We're gonna have to take a thirty minute recess before we even get going."

"How can there be?" Carol asked.

Daryl sighed and crossed the room. He sat down beside Carol and she didn't shy away from him or move down the bed any. At least that was a good sign. They might not have gone forward as fast as he might've wanted, but they weren't going backward.

"Listen," Daryl said, "I'ma just be a straight up guy for a minute. OK?" Carol nodded her acceptance of this. "If it was about you as nothing more than a bunch of parts to play with? Something to touch here and something to...you know there? Then maybe there wouldn't be no excitement. Whole idea of I got that for Christmas last year. But—it ain't about that. You gonna lose interest in me, if we have sex together, just because you already seen me naked? Because we already done it?"

"No," Carol said. "That's—ridiculous."

Daryl raised his eyebrows at her.

"Then what the hell's gotta make me different?" He asked.

"You're a man," Carol said.

Daryl laughed.

"And? So that means I don't think like you do? Means I must lose interest just because—because we did it? Can I get like...just a little credit? Not too much or anything, but something?" He responded.

Carol laughed.

"I guess it's not fair," she said.

"No, it ain't," Daryl said.

"But it just worries me," Carol said. "Because—I don't know if you'll like it. If you'll like me."

Daryl swallowed and his stomach churned a little in protest of his meal.

"And I don't know if you'll like me neither," Daryl said. "Scares the shit outta me that we—been like we have for these months and I could just fuck this up and you'd be like...nope, not what I want. But—if we don't try then we're just right here forever. Never knowing if we'd like it or not."

"You're scared too?" Carol asked. Daryl wasn't sure if she looked amused or hopeful. He laughed to himself and nodded his head.

"Just holding off pissing myself," he said. "So—movie? Or...?"

Carol hesitated a moment, but when she moved around a little to pull his face to hers and kiss him again—this time softer than she had outside—Daryl was pretty sure he had his answer. He started unbuttoning his shirt and, by the time she broke the kiss, he had all but a couple of the buttons undone. She finished them for him and he slipped out of the shirt.

"Only fair," he said, feeling his face burn. "You get to see what I got first."

Daryl stood up and sucked in a breath. He was self-conscious about his body. He always had been to some degree. But that wasn't the kind of thing that men talked about. They didn't sit around saying they hated this or that about their bodies—they weren't supposed to. Carol sat on the bed and watched him as he undressed. Rather than throw his clothes on the floor, as he might normally be inclined to do, Daryl neatly laid them over the chair in Carol's room, mindful of the fact that the suit was nice and he might need it again someday.

And when he'd finally shucked down all the way, understanding a little how mortified Carol had often felt in Spring Valley when she'd been stripped of even her paper gown, Daryl gave a little turn and held his arms out to the side.

"Not much to look at," he said.

"I think it is," Carol offered. "You are." She stood up and turned around, offering her back to Daryl. "Unzip me?"

Daryl obliged her and unzipped the dress. He revealed to himself the back of her bra and the underwear that she was wearing—silky and white. She turned around to face him, then, and shimmied out of her dress. Mindful, too, that it was a dress that she liked, she put in on the chair and draped it over his clothes.

She walked over and opened the drawer to her nightstand. From inside it, she pulled out a foil packet that Daryl recognized immediately.

"Condoms?" He asked.

"It's not because I think you've got anything. I still—I get my period sometimes," Carol said. "Not regular and not—it's not even a real period, and I'm not really sure if it means anything, but it's something..."

"I know," Daryl said, laughing to himself. He felt his cheeks burn a little warm and Carol covered her mouth with her hand.

"I just don't want anything to happen," she said.

"I just forgot about having them," Daryl said. "Been that long. Surprised you were so prepared."

"I bought them two months ago," Carol admitted.

Daryl smiled to himself. She looked mortified to admit that she'd been thinking about this for two months, but it was a little pleasing to him to know that he wasn't the only one.

"It's OK," he offered. The simple words, somehow, seemed to do something to relax Carol again. Without responding, she came to him and pressed against him, kissing him once more.

Daryl touched her, then, for the first time as Carol. Not as his patient, just as Carol. He let his fingertips trail down her side and he slid them over the silky fabric of the panties. She shivered and he laughed to himself.

"Cold?" He asked.

"Not that kind of shiver," Carol responded.

He slid his hands in the back of the panties and squeezed her ass and Carol groaned at him, reaching her hands up to clutch his shoulders. He couldn't hide, even if he wanted to, how turned on he was. Unlike her, he was down to wearing just what he'd come into this world wearing. And he didn't know how long they had, but he knew that he was going to do his best to take his time.

He backed away from her enough to change the position of his hand. He ran his fingertips over her and she changed her position enough to spread her legs a little and open herself up to him, so he continued the gentle stroking. He must have been doing something right, because she changed her position again, allowing him a little more room to move his fingers, and she rested her head against his chest, her hands never leaving his shoulders.

He moved his other hand and slipped it under the bottom of her bra cup. It wasn't the best position that he could imagine, but it was the best he could get at the moment. He felt her nipple harden against his palm and he squeezed her breast in his hand. She gave him a throatier moan this time and somewhat pushed into him. It might have taken him back a step if she'd used just a little more force.

When he stopped his actions and freed his hands, she protested with another sound and dug her fingertips into his shoulders.

"What?" She asked. "What's wrong?"

Daryl laughed to himself.

"I got no real problems with doing this here, if you want to just sort of slip on over there to the wall. But—I think you're wearing a little too much," Daryl said.

Carol only then seemed to realize that she hadn't come out of her underwear—and that she hadn't touched him at all. He wasn't complaining, though. This could be about her—all of it. Because it wasn't going to take much for him to get everything he might want out of the experience and they had plenty of time, when this was done, to try out anything they might want.

Carol came out of her underwear. She stepped out of the panties and left them where they were. She dropped the bra on the floor to join them. And then she made the decision of where this would happen by going to the bed herself and crawling onto it. She patted it to invite Daryl to join her and he didn't need a second invitation.

Once he was on the bed with her, Daryl returned to kissing her. She wrapped her arms around his neck and Daryl didn't have to ask her what she wanted when she opened her legs to him. Daryl touched her again, this time able to tease her with slipping his fingertips inside her, and he couldn't help the sound that escaped him at the satisfaction of touching her in such a way.

"What?" Carol asked, backing off of kissing him enough to give him a concerned look.

He smiled at her, her breathing already faster than normal and her lips pink from the kissing.

"Seen you naked before," Daryl said. "But—don't worry. I never seen you like this before."

In response, Carol wrapped her hand around him for the first time and stroked him. Immediately, Daryl hissed at her and pulled away.

"What?" She asked. "Too hard?"

"Too much," Daryl said. "Right now? Too much. I told you—I ain't no star at this."

Carol kissed him again, but she didn't return to stroking him. Instead, she wiggled her body around and reached to catch the hand that he was using to tease her. She moved it to her breast and he immediately took the suggestion to pay attention to her nipples. She bit his lip before she broke the chain of kisses that she seemed to be enjoying.

"Well?" She asked.

"Well?" Daryl echoed.

"Come on..." Carol said. As if to further illustrate her meaning, she reached around and got the foil packet from the nightstand to offer it to Daryl.

"We don't gotta rush," Daryl assured her. "We've got all night. Tomorrow too, if you ain't busy."

"We don't have to be slow about it either," Carol said, smiling at Daryl and biting her lip. "We can do that later. Tomorrow too."

Daryl accepted her proposal and put the condom on. He changed his position and, without hesitation, followed her command not to take it slowly. He pushed all the way into her, the way that he thought she would want, but her immediate response was to tense up and push against him. He wasn't sure what to do, so he stayed as still as he could, holding her hips.

"Too fast?" He asked.

Carol nodded her head.

"Maybe," she said. "Too much, too soon. I wasn't—expecting that."

Daryl didn't dare to move at the moment.

"What you want me to do?" He asked.

But even as he asked it, he could feel her relaxing. He could see her relaxing. She sunk back into the bed and sighed, no longer pushing at him.

"It's OK now," she said. "It's good. I just—wasn't expecting it."

"It's OK?" Daryl asked.

Carol smiled at him.

"Better than OK," she said. "Move, Daryl."

She didn't have to tell Daryl more than once.

And she didn't have to tell him anything else, either. Almost immediately, they found their rhythm together. More than anything, it was Carol's expressions that drove Daryl on. It was the way that she looked like she was having the best experience of her life—better even than when she ate desserts that always made her roll her eyes back just before she closed them. And the sounds that she made, too, made Daryl forget any concern that he might have had previously about how things would go.

Because even if he wasn't very good, she seemed to think he was.

And even if she might have been afraid that she wasn't very good, it was the best experience that Daryl ever had.

And when Daryl finally sunk down beside her, sweaty and tired and a little shakier than he might want to admit, Carol curled into him and hummed at him, her fingers still gently trailing on his skin.

"Perfect," Daryl said.

"The sex?" Carol asked.

Daryl laughed to himself.

"That too," he said. "But—just you. _That_. This. Perfect."

Carol hummed.

"What?" Daryl asked. "You don't agree?"

Carol sucked in a breath and let it out slowly, wiggling closer to him on the bed, not that it was possible for her to get much closer.

"Almost perfect," she said. "But—if it were really perfect? We'd have remembered to pull the cover back. I'm cold now."

Daryl laughed to himself.

"Always needing something," he teased. "Move—we'll get the blanket."

"If we move," Carol pointed out, "it'll spoil the feeling."

"Then we get under the blanket in the meantime," Daryl said. "And in a little while? We'll get the feeling back again. After all, Sophia's gone three days."


	22. Chapter 22

**AN: So this is the last chapter of this short one. Thanks to the anon on Tumblr that requested Carol waking up with amnesia and thinking that Daryl was her boyfriend.**

 **Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed to let me know you were reading. That helps, more than you know, to spur on a story.**

 **I hope everyone enjoys the last chapter (and enjoyed the story)! Let me know what you think!**

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Daryl woke up feeling exhausted more than he felt energized by the night—of course most of that was probably owing to the fact that he'd slept very little. Neither of them had slept much. They'd gotten too wrapped up in the excitement of their new experiences, and the conversations they had in between those experiences, to spend much of the night sleeping.

But now, Carol was sleeping. Daryl rolled on his side and looked at her. She was lying on her stomach, her face half covered by her arm, and she was breathing deeply enough to suggest that she wasn't too close to waking. Once he was awake, though, Daryl knew he wasn't getting back to sleep. Once upon a time he might have rolled over and caught a few more hours, but his body just didn't do that anymore. Once his eyes were open, they were open, no matter how unjust it might seem.

Lacking anything to wear except for his dress clothes from the night before, Daryl opted to only slip back into his underwear. Then, to keep from waking Carol, he left the bedroom and slipped down the hall to the guest bathroom to relieve himself.

Daryl made himself at home. It wasn't much of a challenge since he felt at home at Carol's house. Since she'd been released from Spring Valley, he'd spent more time at her house than he spent at his own. He really only went back to his place to sleep and, given the night before, he wasn't sure how often he'd really be doing that now.

He wanted to spend more nights like the one he'd just had—lack of sleep and everything—and he had a pretty good feeling that Carol wasn't going to be averse to the idea. Even though it was their first night together, it already felt, honestly, like they'd been there so many times before. It felt like they'd always been there—always just this way.

 _And, if they were lucky, they might always be._

In the kitchen, Daryl took his time measuring out coffee and putting a pot on to brew. He burrowed through the refrigerator and mentally planned a breakfast that would take them both through the morning. Lunch, and probably dinner too, was taken care of thanks to their leftovers. They'd each brought home an entrée, but neither of them had even finished the one that they'd ordered to eat at the restaurant. There was more than enough food to get them through the day.

When the coffee was made, Daryl poured himself a cup and stood by the kitchen counter while he sleepily drank half of it. Then he refreshed the mug and poured a second cup for Carol that he prepared just the way he knew that she'd like it. He took both mugs and made his way back to the bedroom, prepared to rouse Sleeping Beauty from her slumber at least long enough to let her know that he was going to make a run to his house for clothes—and a toothbrush if she was allowing him to return.

When he came into the room, Carol was stirring a little in the bed, but she didn't look like she'd devoted herself entirely to the idea of waking up. Daryl put the coffee mugs on the nightstand and picked up the small wastebasket that he'd brought from the bathroom the night before and left by the bed. He brushed stray wrappers into the trashcan and put it out of the way for the moment. When he looked back at Carol, she was watching him. He smiled at her.

"Hey," he said. "Remember me?"

Carol groaned at him, dropped her face back into her pillow, and then looked at him with a smirk.

"You're going to tease me forever, aren't you?" She asked.

Daryl waved his hand at her to suggest that she give him enough room to sit, and she obliged him. As soon as he sat on the bed, she rolled and rested her head on his thigh so that she could look up at him while using him as a pillow. He ran his fingers through her hair, tugging gently when they caught on the tangles that he'd more than likely caused.

"Not if you don't want me to," Daryl said. "If you don't like it? I'll stop."

Carol sighed.

"I really don't mind it," she said. "I really don't. And—you know, I really don't mind the whole—not remembering things."

"You don't sound too convincing," Daryl said. "I gotta admit."

"I don't," Carol insisted, this time sounding a little more convincing. Daryl wasn't sure if she really meant it or if she was simply changing her voice because he'd pointed out that her earlier words hadn't really had a sincere quality to them. "I don't," she repeated. She hesitated a moment. "It's just..."

"Just what?" Daryl pressed when it seemed that she had no intention of finishing her statement.

Carol sighed again.

"It's not the past that I worry so much about never remembering," Carol said. "I mean—I remember most of the important things. I remember my parents, even if I don't remember everything about them."

"But that's natural too," Daryl said. "I don't remember hardly anything about mine by now. At least—not really. Not in detail. Can barely tell you what they looked like. That's just age."

Carol hummed.

"I remember Sophia," Carol said. "I can remember—when she was born. I remember when I was pregnant with her, even. I remember some things about when—when she was little and growing up."

"Every single detail about your ex-husband," Daryl pointed out. Carol didn't look amused.

"I don't try to remember him," Carol said. "I don't know why I remember what I do and why I've forgotten what I forgot. But—that's the thing. I don't know if anything I don't remember is very important or if—it doesn't seem important _because_ I don't remember it."

Daryl laughed to himself.

"If it doesn't seem important, then it isn't important," Daryl said. "Besides—you might still remember it. You aren't done healing yet. Not by a long shot. It could all come back. Every last bit of it."

Carol moved and changed her position entirely, then. She sat up in the bed, almost leaning on Daryl because of the tilt that his weight gave the mattress.

"The thing is—I'm not worried about it," Carol said. "I'm really not. If it comes back, it comes back. If it doesn't? Sophia will help me remember what's important, at least to her. And everything else?" Carol shrugged. "I can let it go if I have to."

"So what's on your mind?" Daryl asked. He chewed at his lip. On her face, she wore an expression that told him that there was more that she wasn't saying. There was more to her thoughts than she was letting on. It would come out, though. It always did. Eventually, he was almost always able to convince her to say what she was thinking. And Daryl knew how to be patient.

"What if it's not _just_ my long term memory," Carol said. "What if it's more than that?"

"I'm not following," Daryl said. "We know it's your long term memory. Remember? You talked to the doctors. I even went with you to a couple of the appointments. We've heard them say it's your long term memory that got affected. At least—that hasn't come back yet."

"What if it's my short term too?" Carol asked. "What if—they don't know everything? What if it's something where—where the short term never makes it to long term?"

Daryl shrugged his shoulders gently. He wasn't sure what to say, but he certainly didn't want to make light of Carol's very real concerns.

"Then we'll figure that out too," Daryl said. "But your short term memory is doing fine. You don't even forget half the stuff that I forget and I don't have any excuse for what I lose. I just forget it because I'm old and I got too much on my mind, but you don't forget much of anything. At least—you haven't since I've known you." Carol made another face at him and Daryl moved his arm so that he could catch her face. "Tell me what's on your mind," he said. "Just say it. And maybe—we can sort through it. But I can't do nothing if you don't tell me what we're really talking about here."

Carol frowned.

"You asked me if I remembered you," Carol said. Daryl nodded his head. "What if, one day, I don't?"

Daryl's stomach twisted. It twisted both at the idea that she might, one day, forget him—or even that he might forget her—but it also twisted at the thought that she _wanted_ to remember him. And she wasn't talking about just remembering him a day or two. She wasn't talking about even a few months down the line. She was talking about a future—one that stretched on, perhaps, even longer than either of them could see—where she was worried that she might forget him.

Daryl swallowed and shook his head gently at her.

"I can't promise you that you won't ever forget me," Daryl said. "I can't promise that—you won't forget who I am or...what my name is. But I can't promise you that I won't forget you either. And it might not have a thing to do with your accident or any other accident. The brain, sometimes, don't always act like we want it to."

"I don't want to forget you," Carol offered.

Daryl nodded his head at her.

"And I don't wanna forget you," Daryl said. "But I'm not God. Not even close. And I can't promise you that it won't happen."

The expression that crossed her face was so sincerely sad that Daryl had to swallow a few times against the knot that formed in his throat. He had to remind himself that the feeling she gave him, so often without meaning to, of suffocation and what he imagined heart failure to feel like was really nothing half as terrible or life-threatening as he might once have believed it to be.

And it wasn't a _horrible_ thing that her pain was his pain.

Daryl shook his head at her again.

"I can't promise you that we don't forget each other," he repeated. "But—what I can promise you? Is that—even if we forget each other? We'll just keep reminding each other who we are. And, one way or another, we'll remember."

"And if we don't?" Carol asked.

Daryl smiled to himself.

"I might forget your name," he said. "I might—even forget how you like your coffee or the fact that you can't sleep unless you're on the left side of the bed..."

"Right," Carol corrected with a smile. Daryl returned the smile.

"Right," he agreed. "But—I don't think I'm gonna forget how you make me feel. Because—I never felt that before. And...I think that might be enough to get us through the rest."

"How do you feel?" Carol asked, raising her eyebrows at him.

Daryl swallowed again. Thinking it was one thing, but saying it was another thing entirely. Still, if he felt it, he might as well say it. It wasn't going anywhere. He had the strange suspicion that feelings like that didn't just up and disappear.

"Think you know," he said.

"But I'd like to hear you say it," Carol said. Daryl hesitated and she smiled at him, raising her eyebrows. "You want me to go first?" She asked.

Daryl shook his head and gathered up his courage.

"Love you," he said. "Think you know it."

Carol smiled at him. She narrowed her eyes slightly.

"Love you too," she seconded. "But—I think you knew that too. I know Sophia does. I think everyone does."

Carol leaned forward and caught Daryl's lips with her own in a soft and barely there kiss. Daryl didn't even try to hide the shiver that ran through his body at the feeling.

"I think that's enough," he said. "Don't you? To get us through—whatever we might forget?"

Carol nodded her head.

"Like you said," Carol agreed. "I might forget—who you are. And I might forget what your name is. But I'll never forget how I feel. I'll never forget—that I love you."

Daryl smiled.

"Then we'll remember the most important things," Daryl said. "The rest? They're just the details."


End file.
